<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>We are the Dead by Ealasaid, Pavuvu</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126143">We are the Dead</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid'>Ealasaid</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu'>Pavuvu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>between the crosses [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Epistolary, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Ghosts, Historical Accuracy, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Supernatural Elements, World War I, ghost!Blake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:41:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>49,812</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom Blake is a ghost, and he isn't sure what that means.  But he'll be damned if he leaves William Schofield to face the trenches alone.</p><p>[post-canon novel centered on Thomas Blake and his experiences post-mortem.  Set directly following <em>hold it high</em> through to the early part of December 1917.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joseph Blake &amp; Lieutenant Richards, Joseph Blake &amp; William Schofield, Major Hepburn &amp; Colonel Mackenzie, Tom Blake &amp; William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>between the crosses [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>233</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>114</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. April 8th-11th, 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This begins directly following the events of "hold it high;" it is highly recommended that you read the previous works in this series before reading this.  The title is taken, again, from John McCrae's "In Flanders Fields."</p><p>(Also, happy 28th birthday to George MacKay!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>April 8th</em>
</p><p>The next morning is cool and overcast.  </p><p>Tom sits up abruptly.  He looks around -- he’s . . . in an empty bunk -- an empty top bunk.  He looks down: Will is sleeping in the bunk below. His friend, Tom notes with satisfaction, looks significantly better than yesterday; Will has regained some colour in his face.  </p><p>Tom realises he has managed -- he’s not sure how -- to actually <em> sleep </em> through the night.  Even as a ghost! How interesting.  One would think, now that Tom is dead, he doesn’t need rest . . . yet Tom still finds himself waking up somewhere he would naturally assume he’d wake.  Were they even doing anything that strenuous? -- Ah. It probably had something to do with meeting the Grim. Now <em> that </em> had given him a right start -- he’d always thought Grims were just children’s tales.  Who buried dogs as sacrifices these days?  </p><p>But the big black dog with the unearthly blind eyes was unmistakably real.  Tom feels himself flickering at the memory of when they saw him -- saw right through him.  Tom knows dogs, knows how clever they can be -- or not. This one honed in on his presence as only Will could do, now, and watched him as intently as any of the English Setters his father bred and trained; but more -- focused, somehow.  The Grim’s gaze had been far too knowing for any mere animal. Tom had felt immeasurable relief when Will walked up to it and drew its attention away from him. And that pull -- </p><p>Even now he feels it, just a little.  A sense of freedom, of flight; being able to let go of what is happening here, in the war, with the living.  But --</p><p>“Well now, look who’s up!”  Tom starts and looks around.</p><p>It is one of his brother’s men, the sandy-haired one who offered Will food last night.  So he’s definitely not talking to Tom, he’s talking to -- right, Will. Who, Tom sees, is also blinking awake.  He looks bewildered at the attention -- is that a sign of head trauma? Has he forgotten where he is? -- damn it all, he should’ve stayed at the Aid Post --</p><p>“Oh, give him a moment,” says another soldier as Tom sees Will gain awareness of the situation.  Their eyes meet and they share a brief look of commiseration -- both of them have seen what happens when new, stranger soldiers get thrown in with the enlisted often enough.  (Tom was usually the one quizzing them.) “It’s not that late.”</p><p>“But he slept all yesterday, too!”</p><p>This comment earns him a swat from his older companion.  “And everyone else saw he needed it, you arse.”</p><p>“Yeah, Coop’, where’re your manners?” a third man scolds from somewhere.  </p><p>“He is awake now, though,” a fourth says reasonably.  They are all Privates, by the looks of it. This one is a little older than the first two soldiers -- but not by much; and if any of them were more than 23, Tom would eat his helmet.  </p><p>The fourth fellow is leaning back comfortably and is watching the proceedings with great interest.  So, Tom notices, are at least a dozen others, all sitting within earshot. He glances back at Will.</p><p>Will looks the same as always -- a quiet man with not much to say.  Tom can see the slight crinkle of confusion at the corners of Will’s eyes and, impulsively, says: “Don’t let them ask you anything ‘til you’ve eaten something.” </p><p>Will’s expression clears a little.  Mildly, he says “Cornering me before breakfast -- now, that’s cruel.”  </p><p>Joe’s men take it good-naturedly -- soldiers are always hungry.  Private Cooper, the sandy-haired one, points out the dixie in its box of hay.  There is a brief moment of consternation when Will quietly admits he hasn’t his mess kit with him anymore, but suitable implements are produced from the now-eager crowd.  In Tom’s opinion, though, the most important part is that with a borrowed tin spoon and mug and five minutes’ peace, Will is able to get something in him beside last night’s biscuit and bread.</p><p>“So,” Private Cooper begins with great relish as Will wolfs down the last of the pea soup, “what’re you doing out here?  No mess kit, no webbing, no rifle?”  </p><p>“The Lieutenant said you’d brung him news, yesterday,” the fourth man comments neutrally, apparently unable to wait any longer.</p><p>Tom feels his heart thump excruciatingly hard for a long, long moment.  Will slows noticeably, chewing through a particularly choking chunk of horsemeat, but doesn’t meet Tom’s glare.</p><p>“No,” Tom manages through numb lips.  “No, Scho -- he’ll tell them himself, don’t . . . “  The thought of Joe’s pain becoming common gossip -- no.  Not if Joe weren’t expecting it, which he would if he was the one who let it slip himself.</p><p>Will’s already shaking his head, though, swallowing to clear his mouth.  “Won’t tell you that. That’s the Lieutenant’s private business; you’ll have to ask him.  Sorry.”</p><p>Tom breathes a sigh of relief.  And -- Tom never appreciated before, the cleverness Will is able to contrive, but Will’s close-mouthed approach is actually winning the men's regard.  Not only is he showing he respects their Lieutenant as they do, but Will’s sincerity and his sombre tone earns him a chorus of matter-of-fact nods and neatly closes off that conversational avenue in such a way that it will be let lie.</p><p>“But where’d you come from in the first place?” a new voice asks.  Tom can’t see who it is.</p><p>“I’m from the 8th,” Will answers easily.    </p><p>“You didn’t come out here just to bring the Lieutenant personal news,” the fourth man prods.  </p><p>Will has scraped out the remainder of the soup and is sopping the last few drops with some of the bread he was given.  “Course not. I’ve not any leave to spend.” He eats the last crust neatly. “Was sent out with a message. Our telephone lines were cut.”</p><p>“Fucking Huns!” the second man swears vehemently.  “They sent <em> me </em> out once ‘cause of that.  Don’t know how I made it back alive, I really don’t.”</p><p>“Christ, Martin.  We’ve all heard it before,” groans a man who has edged up to the front since Will started answering questions.</p><p>“Sod off, you weren’t there,” Private Martin retorts.</p><p>The conversation turns away from the more sensitive subjects.  Joe’s men are eager to hear what things are like in another battalion, and any other news at all.  They quiz Will for nearly an hour, comparing company gossip, before their curiosity is exhausted.  </p><p>“Thank you,” Tom is able to tell Will later, when they’re able to escape the press of interested men and duck somewhere private.</p><p>Will shakes his head.  “Wouldn’t’ve told them anyway.  Your brother’s a good man.”</p><p>Tom grins.  “Just like me, then, right?” he jokes.</p><p>Will's mouth twitches into the faintest of smiles.  “Yes,” he says.  </p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em>April 9th</em>
</p><p>Early the second day with the Devons, the remaining Sergeant from the platoon comes to the billet and wakes the men, nearly all of whom are sleeping.  “Right, lads,” he says in that precise combination of volume and tone that is guaranteed to wake the dead and arrest the attention of schoolchildren. (Tom finds himself perking up and listening close).  “We’re off -- we’ve a labour detail to work out. ‘All hands on deck,’ as they say.”</p><p>“What for, Sarge?” Private Kimberley whines from where he has his face pressed tight to a makeshift pillow.</p><p>“We’ve got orders to dig in.”  The Sergeant, himself looking a bit careworn, tries to soften his terse command with a bit of explanation and affectionate insult.  “D Company’s done most of the work and it’s up to us to fortify. Come on, you lazy clods.”</p><p>The men groan but they get up.  Will, to Tom’s surprise, is among them.</p><p>“What’re you doing?” Tom hisses as Will reaches to straighten his absent webbing.  He sees his friend’s hands falter at the missing gear. “You aren’t even kitted out right!  Joe wouldn’t make you do this, you don’t have to go -- “</p><p>But Will gives him a <em> look, </em> damn him.  He at least deigns to answer (once the last soldier is striding out the billet) with “Come on, Tom.  It can’t hurt.”</p><p>“You’re still recovering!” Tom snaps back.  </p><p>“My head’s fine,” Will says calmly, leaving the billet.  </p><p>“What about your hand?” Tom asks heatedly as they step outside.  But it’s too late; they have caught up to the grumbling soldiers and Will doesn’t answer that question.  </p><p>He’s the only one lacking a helmet as they scramble to fortify the second-line trench, turning it into a proper sandbagged zigzag.  That is, until one of the section’s other Lance Corporals notices. He insists Will take one of the helmets left behind by some dead or dying serviceman.  Will clearly wants to complain -- Tom mutters a string of sympathetic imprecations to keep his friend’s spirits up -- but after the erstwhile Private Cooper is knocked screaming into the trench wall by a mis-aimed sniper’s bullet, the point is made.  Tom watches as Will gets whiter and whiter with every passing minute and ardently wishes he knew how to calm anxiety in others -- all the interesting stories in the world aren’t distracting enough, that day. </p><p>More worryingly, Tom notices Will starts to favor his left hand by midmorning.  Will doesn’t stop working, or slow down, really, but he does use the tips of his fingers instead of his whole hand when he can get away with it.  When he’s tasked with a spade, Will leads awkwardly with his right hand. Small things -- subtle things.</p><p>“Is your hand all right?” Tom asks him quietly when Will’s a little separated from the rest, working their way through the line.</p><p>Will flicks a look around, sees no one close.  “It’s fine,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“Will you go to the Aid Post, at least?”</p><p>“Don’t need to,” Will says shortly.</p><p>Tom fixes him with a glare of his own.  Will’s mouth flattens. Tom lets it go for now; he resolves to pester Will about it later, when they’ll have more time to talk.</p><p>They work through lunch and most of the afternoon.  By the end of the shift, Will has a set look and stiff carriage that, were Tom still alive, would cue him to run interference for any superior officers within range.  But he can’t. And fortunately, Tom doesn’t need to -- this time. Will is able to get off the labour detail and go back to the billet and muck in with the rest of Joe’s men, and the evening is quiet.  </p><p>When Will gets up to leave near midnight -- far too late for him to be seriously thinking about visiting the medical officers -- doing his best to project how screamingly casual the whole thing is, Tom loses his temper.</p><p>“What,” Tom demands, “are you doing?”</p><p>Will gives him a sideways look.  “There’ll have been casualties,” he says, his tone carefully neutral.  Tom doesn’t miss how Will rigidly straightens his new helmet, even though they’re bunked so far at the rear the Hun would need to be gods to hit them.</p><p>“And?” Tom wants to know.  “You need rest!”</p><p>“They’ll need directions,” Will says, quietly.  He doesn’t look happy -- Will rarely smiles, and Tom’s only really seen him do it when Tom tells a good one -- but even for Will’s usual, his expression is dour.  So they go meandering through camp as though Will has nothing better to do. Like sleep, or reread letters, or wank, or -- or -- </p><p>Tom works himself into a state, worrying over Will’s behavior like this.  It’s not like Will to keep going until he stumbles from exhaustion, and goodness knows <em> why </em> they have to go collecting and returning ghosts <em> right now </em> when Will is very nearly at that point.  Unless . . . </p><p>Realisation dawns. </p><p>“Is <em> this </em> what you did back in the 8th?” Tom asks, hushed.  He remembers learning the hard way in his first two weeks with the 8th that sometimes, when Tom turned around, Will had vanished.  He never seemed to have an answer for where he’d been -- but then, Tom usually got too distracted to follow through on getting one.   </p><p>Will picks at the bandage on his hand.  “What’re you on about?” he says, tone transparently light.  “I can think of several things I did -- like keeping <em> you </em> out of trouble when you mumped Wilko’s biscuits. -- Do you remember?”</p><p>Tom is sidetracked with that, but -- a few minutes later, when he reflects on the exchange, he realises that Will’s careful lack of response to Tom’s question makes Tom feel . . . cold.  </p><p>At least Tom has finally discovered why the quietest member of the company always disappeared at strange hours: they were camped within a mile of a graveyard.  But, Tom thinks as he watches Private Cooper and seven other ghosts (two retrieved from the front line, the one who came attached with the helmet, four collected from the rear) meet the Grim, it is a cold sort of comfort.  </p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em>April 10th</em>
</p><p>Today, Will is not on labour detail -- the platoon has been passed over for duty, much to Tom’s relief.  Yesterday was awful. Instead, Will sets out not long after breakfast to track down Joe.</p><p>“You should go to get your hand checked,” Tom argues as they go.  “After all the work yesterday, they need to take a look at it.”</p><p>Will glances reflexively at his hand, then stuffs it in his pocket.  “I’m fine,” he says.</p><p>“That’s a lie if I ever heard one,” Tom says sharply.  “You haven’t gone in three days. And you told me yourself it wasn’t all right.”</p><p>Will says nothing.  He just walks faster.  But Tom can be just as stubborn as Will, and matches his friend pace for pace.  “Look,” he begins, heatedly.</p><p>“Lieutenant Blake!” Will shouts, and waves a hand.  He jogs over to Tom’s brother, who has appeared in sight.</p><p>“Lance Corporal,” Joe says as Will salutes.  Now that Tom isn’t half-stunned by battle or terror, he can really see how Joe is doing.  </p><p>Tom’s older brother looks generally the same as he did right before he left home for his first posting, but the war has left its mark.  Joe’s uniform is neat and tidy; nevertheless, it is apparent that the bloodstains from three days ago haven’t quite been got out by the batman.  His face has more lines in it than Tom remembers. Worst of all, though, are the signs that Joe has been sleeping poorly: his eyes are faintly reddened and he looks . . . wan.  Tom knows it is because of the news of his death. Joe saw some action at the Somme, and Tom doubts the called-off attack of three days ago would have shaken his fearless older brother so.</p><p>“Sir, I was wondering if you’d heard anything about when I am to return to the 8th,” Will says politely.  </p><p>Joe evaluates Will.  “You’ve time free, now?” he asks.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says.</p><p>“Good,” Joe says.  “Let’s go see the Quartermaster about getting you some new gear.”</p><p>Will falters a little at that.  “. . . Sir?”</p><p>“Even if you were to leave, you’d need to be kitted out properly,” Joe says, expertly corralling them in the right direction through some subtle trick of body language.  “Let’s make sure you’re ready for the orders when you get them.”</p><p>“He does this,” Tom tells Will, determined to get a rise out of his friend.  “I always knew he’d make a good officer; he’s great at being a mother hen.”</p><p>Will desperately looks like he wants to say something, but catches himself in time.  Tom laughs at his expression, unrestrained.</p><p>When they arrive, Joe goes through all the rigmarole while Will and Tom watch.  Joe politely browbeats the Quartermaster’s assistants, but eventually the Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant is called in.  The man has a short fuse and seems to have had several bad days in a row. Though he doesn’t quite have the authority to stick it to Joe, he does outrank Schofield, and wastes no time demanding answers.</p><p>“What happened to your <em> originally-issued </em> gear?” he says to Will, tone sharp -- he seems to be looking for something to take personal offense at.</p><p>Will is stiff at the confrontation.  Lance Corporals are step above Private, but not by much; they’re the lowest of the non-commissioned, which means that every other red tabs can walk all over them.  And this Sergeant is intent on doing just that, given the opportunity.</p><p>“I lost it, Sir.”</p><p>“You lost it,” the Sergeant repeats flatly.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says, and continues before Tom can prod him to explain.  “I was on my way here to deliver a message. I had to jump into a river to evade some Germans who were pursuing me.  The weight was dragging me under.”</p><p>“Sir,” Tom whispers as the Sergeant’s expression turns thunderous.</p><p>“Sir,” Will adds politely.  His hands, clasped behind his back, are white with tension.</p><p>“And your rifle?”  The Sergeant’s tone threatens retribution.</p><p>“Sergeant,” Joe interjects firmly.  It redirects the Sergeant’s attention; Tom could sigh with relief if he weren’t still too intimidated by the situation.  “I can assure you that Lance Corporal Schofield has already addressed these concerns in his report to myself and Major Hepburn.”  </p><p>“I see,” the Sergeant grates out.  “Thank you for clarifying this.”</p><p>Shortly after, Will is issued some repurposed leather webbing, along with all the accoutrement, and a brand-new Lee-Enfield rifle.  He straps it all on, grimacing a little as he tests the straps.</p><p>“It’s like being back in basic,” he whispers to Tom.  </p><p>“No more fancy cotton kit from 1915,” Tom says lightly.  “Don’t worry; I’m sure it’s not much more weight than before.”  And indeed, Will does not seem burdened in the slightest when he manages to get it hanging properly.</p><p>Outside the supplies station, Joe excuses himself to Headquarters.</p><p>“D’you mind if I follow him?” Tom asks Will, struck with inspiration.  </p><p>Will looks startled, and then smiles.  “Why not? I could use a nap.”</p><p>“No,” Tom says sharply, “go to the Aid Post and see the medical officer about your hand.”</p><p>Will hesitates.  He is very reluctant.  Tom wishes he understood <em> why </em> -- it makes no sense.  “You have to get it checked out,” Tom coaxes.  “It’s been three days. Get the dressing changed, at least.”</p><p>“Alright,” Will says.  His shoulders slump; the fight has gone out of him, at last.  But maybe that’s because they are right beside the Aid Post anyway.</p><p>“I’ll tell you whatever I find out at supper,” Tom promises.</p><p>Tom <em> should </em> be all right on his own.  Stepping away from Will as Will approaches the entrance of the medical buildings, Tom looks around, a little wary.  This isn’t the first time he’s been separate from Will since Will arrived at the 2nd, but if Tom <em> does </em> stay away until supper, it will be the longest.</p><p>Tom had tested a little the day they arrived, after his brother shepherded Will to Joe’s platoon’s billet.  Will went out like a light once he lay down on the bunk, and nothing -- not even the shelling that started up midafternoon and lasted until twilight -- had caused him to twitch, not even once.  Although Tom didn’t begrudge his friend some well-deserved sleep . . . Tom found that when he wasn’t busy getting lost in fits or cozying up inside of Will’s tin by accident, time passed at the same rate as usual.  </p><p>Tom -- well, his mother always did complain about his curiosity.  Tom got <em> bored. </em>  He needed something to do, and being a ghost meant that a lot of things he’d have open to him before -- mucking around, cadging or winning tastier bites from other soldiers, maybe finding someone with a football -- were not possible.  He couldn’t write letters back home, either, though he’d’ve liked to. (Strangely, Tom found he still had his mother’s letter on him. Odd, that.) So, Tom decided to experiment.  </p><p>He started by seeing how far he could range away from Will.  It was an unnerving thought in the beginning: since Tom had died at the farm, he had not really been outside of Will’s presence.  The furthest Tom had got, all through the journey to the 2nd Devons, was down a flight of stairs and just out a door in Écoust -- at which point Tom wasn’t really sure <em> what </em> happened, only that he’d been frozen in place, reliving Will being buried alive until the man himself had finally woken up and found him.  Even when they were with the 2nd Devons, the thought of leaving Will behind <em> in the sodding billet </em> where Will was <em> safe </em> had been paralyzing, numbing Tom with a creeping terror that he had to fight off by keeping his eyes on his friend and counting Will’s breaths as he slept.  </p><p>Eventually, Tom had worked up the determination to do it, though.  He’d walked outside the billet where Will lay sleeping and looked around.  When nothing awful happened, Tom went a little further away -- two buildings over.  He’d watched three Privates teaching each other to cheat at cards for a good hour before he felt anxiety start to creep in, reminding him that he needed to dig his friend out and escape . . .  But Tom had caught sight of Joe as he dashed out the building, then, and that steadied him, a little. So Tom followed his brother for a while, too. Not for long -- Joe was heading back to the billet where Will was: chatting with the men, one or two at a time, checking in with them to make sure they had gotten their supper.  That sort of thing.  (It cheered Tom to see that his brother weren’t a shite officer.)  Even with that bolster, though, once he got back to his friend, Tom couldn’t convince himself to leave again.</p><p>But all that was three days ago.  Tom shakes himself out of his thoughts and automatically looks around; he catches a glimpse of Will watching him from just inside the Aid Post, concerned.  Tom grins and waves cheerily at him, and strides off down the path already worn into the ground by the traffic of the newly-built camp.  </p><p>The walk -- glide -- flight -- Tom pauses and looks at his feet.  They <em> seem </em> to be touching the ground, but he has no weight; he doesn’t leave footprints in the muddier parts, or bend weeds where he steps.  Well, walking would be fine to describe it for now. -- Anyway, the walk is uneventful, though it does sound like the Bosche start shelling the front line again halfway through it.  There’ll be more ghosts for Will to pick up; Tom hopes they’ll find their way to the rear without Will having to go find them himself. Although . . . Tom files that thought away for later perusal.</p><p>Despite the short time it has been there -- the camp was only established three or four days ago -- Headquarters has a remarkably solid construction.  It is half-buried for one, sunk down at least one level into the ground around the foundations of the building that had been there previously. The officers’ club is above it, a more hastily-constructed affair that is nevertheless much more sturdy-looking than the canvas and clapboard walls of two nights ago.  </p><p>Tom can’t help it; he freezes at the threshold of the stairs leading down.  As a living Lance Corporal, he would never have dared to enter without a direct summons or a message.  He has neither, now, but he also isn’t alive anymore, and the only ones who can see him are other ghosts or Will.  So it really shouldn’t matter.</p><p>To be fair, there were plenty of ghosts hanging around this part.  The more permanent Aid Post was also located here, and there were enough ghosts from medical procedures that didn’t quite succeed.  But these ones were almost all certainly new; Tom and Will had made a sweep through here last night and shepherded any they could find towards the churchyard.  And Tom remembered the Bosche sniper’s ghost, who hadn’t even noticed him but an hour after his death -- these ones won’t see him, or care if they did.  </p><p>Tom will be fine.  Besides -- Joe is down there  And that has Tom moving, tromping down the steps with -- well, if not excitement, at least enthusiasm.</p><p>The interior is dark and thick with cigarette smoke.  The shadows <em> would </em> make it hard to see how far the room extends -- if Tom wasn’t a ghost, and therefor able to see regardless.  Once he blinks away the initial blindness, the room appears larger than the one back at 8th.  While some of it is clearly newly-excavated, there is a part that looks like it’s connected to at least one cellar level, with proper supports keeping the ceiling strong.  Pools of dim orange light mark where lamps stand, illuminating a spread of maps across two separate tables.  Colonel Mackenzie is at one, listening quietly as what looks like a . . . Major and a Captain debate quietly the current information on the Bosche holding the opposing line.  Tom recognises a second Major present -- the one who told Will where to find Joe.  Three Lieutenants -- one of them Joe -- are listening in, as well.  In a corner is a bizarre contraption with one lone man sitting behind it, tapping at a small metal switch with strange regularity.  A telegraphist, Tom realizes.  He’s only ever heard of them before now.    </p><p>This only holds his interest for a moment, though.  A hush falls over the room; diverted, Tom looks around to see the Major and the Captain turn to Mackenzie.  Mackenzie says nothing for several long moments.  </p><p>“We hold,” he says finally.  “Hold and consolidate our forces.  Have the men finished fortifying the lines?”</p><p>“The trenches are still being expanded,” says the Captain, “but they should be suitably strengthened by evening.”</p><p>“Good,” says Mackenzie, and that appears to be the end of it.</p><p>The talk turns to reinforcement and restructuring.  Losses were considered to be light. Tom, thinking of the ghosts both that he has seen and that Will has managed to collect, isn’t so sure.  Some of them were very scared, after all, and each one seems to weigh Will down just a little bit more . . . But, Tom supposes, when it comes to the battalion as a whole, it might not be so much.</p><p>At one point, Tom notices that the Major who spoke with Will -- Hepburn, Tom remembers someone calling him Hepburn -- has pulled Joe into a quiet conversation that is almost entirely drowned out by the ongoing discussion.  Tom moves in closer in time to overhear Joe asking about Will’s situation.</p><p>“I don’t mind him,” says Joe to Major Hepburn.  “He is willing to work with my men and doesn’t shirk.  But he is wondering what his orders will be, and when he can expect to return to the 8th.”</p><p>Major Hepburn nods, acknowledging the situation.  It is a fact of life in the army that a soldier needs orders; leaving Will adrift outside his normal chain of command like now does him no harm, but it also does not necessarily do him any good.  It also doesn’t do Joe any good, having a soldier who is technically-but-not-really under his command working with his usual men without a definitive place in the company. </p><p>“We haven’t an answer for that at present,” Major Hepburn responds.  “We’ve heard back from the 8th, of course, but -- well.  Erinmore hasn’t any use for him at the moment, or he would have let us know.  But tell me -- what are your impressions of Lance Corporal Schofield?  Has he mentioned anything about the conditions he faced in getting here?”</p><p>Tom can feel his eyebrows raise themselves.  Why on earth would a Major want to know about that?  Not that Will told Joe, much, either . . .</p><p>“Nothing formal, Sir,” Joe says, tone indicating that Schofield has certainly said <em> something. </em>  Tom leans in; he wonders what his brother has heard.  </p><p>“Is it just the river?  Or did he tell you something while I was asleep?” Tom asks his brother with interest.  “Or, wait -- was it about the Bosche trenches that collapsed on us?  He spotted the tripwire, but a rat set it off.”  He blinks, reliving the feeling of the shock of the wall hitting him -- Tom shakes his head and the memory dissolves. “I saved his life, you know!  Dug him out and we ran. Thought we wouldn’t make it, honestly --”</p><p>Major Hepburn is hiding a smile.  “Unofficial will do, Lieutenant,” he says.</p><p>“He reported getting hit by a sniper in Écoust -- ricochet to the head; I helped the medical officer clean that one out.  He also mentioned a dogfight that . . . disrupted the journey.” A shadow of grief reappears on Joe’s face; he clears his throat and continues.  “The pilot was rescued, but attacked his companion.”</p><p>“His -- yes.  I’m sorry for your loss.”</p><p>“Thank you, Sir.”  Joe hesitates a moment; Tom recognises the look on his face.  It’s the expression Joe has when he wants to ask someone about something Joe doesn’t think he has any right to know, but really, really wants to anyway.  “Sir -- the Lance Corporal mentioned carrying a message. Might I ask what it was, Sir?”</p><p>Major Hepburn looks steadily at Joe, but Tom gets the sense that the Major is surprised nevertheless.  </p><p>“He didn’t tell you?” the Major asks.</p><p>“No, Sir.”</p><p>Major Hepburn nods.  This information means something to him.  Tom can tell that much, but Tom isn’t certain of what, exactly.  “It was the new intelligence that led us to reconsider our attack three days ago,” he tells Joe.  “He got it to us just in time.”</p><p>“Damn right we did,” Tom mutters under his breath.  “Handy, being able to clear you living ones. He could barely walk at that point; needed all the help he could get.”</p><p>Joe absorbs the information.  Tom’s brother isn’t stupid; Tom can see Joe correlating this bit of news with how the attack started as planned and ended abruptly.  “Did he arrive just as we began? I’m impressed he made it to the cut-and-cover so quickly,” Joe says after a moment.</p><p>“As am I,” Major Hepburn responds, and nods to one of the Lieutenants standing by the table.  “Lieutenant Richards saw him -- what was it you said earlier, Lieutenant Richards?”</p><p>The Lieutenant looks up.  He’s a wiry fellow, with sandy hair and a <em> very </em>posh accent.  “I’m sorry, Sir?”</p><p>“That Lance Corporal?” Major Hepburn prompts.  “The one trying to reach Colonel Mackenzie.”</p><p>“Oh, him!”  Lieutenant Richards seems to swell dramatically.  “Madder than anyone I’ve ever seen. When I told him how far down the line he had to go -- well, with how crowded it was -- impossible.  And he went over the top instead!  I still can’t believe he made it.  Bloody insane, that one.”</p><p>“He <em> what?”  </em>Tom chokes.  This revelation astounds him.  He thinks back on those moments, frantically: he was in the tin -- he remembers it being oddly quiet -- there were those shocks, and the roll . . .  <em> “That’s </em> what he did??”</p><p>Tom <em> knows </em> Will is affected by battle, has seen all the ways Will shies from the subject and flinches from other soldiers’ tales.  Will doesn’t remember the Somme, and he fought in two battles there. These things are easy to remember when Tom’s definitive experience with Will in the field was him rescuing Will from a collapsed tunnel that had buried his friend alive.</p><p>And Will -- Will has children.  A wife. And he risked his life and <em> ran across a battlefield </em> to deliver a <em> message </em> -- to save <em> Tom’s </em> brother.  To think that Will risked <em> so much </em> -- </p><p>Tom finds himself swaying and blinking as several officers, his brother included, leave en masse.  He must have lost time again, caught up in thought.  Forgetting himself, he throws a nervous salute at Mackenzie and Major Hepburn before making for the door. </p><p>Outside, the overcast sky really doesn’t help give a sense of time.  Tom checks the Aid Post first, but Will isn’t there -- and there’s at least one new ghost, so he hasn’t been there in a while.  Tom races through the rear to check Joe’s platoon’s billet. He simply cannot reconcile how his friend Will, a father and a husband, can take the risks Tom has already witnessed him taking; knowing that Will was mad enough to chance an open battlefield and the randomness of death for Tom’s sake -- Tom can’t make sense of it.  And -- he can’t help but feel rising horror at the realisation of just how much his thoughtless decision to pick Schofield has put Will through.</p><p>-- <em> I wish you’d picked some other bloody idiot! </em> --</p><p>By the time Tom finds Will back at the billet, he is ready to climb inside his friend’s <em> skin. </em>  The billet is largely deserted, but for Private Northcott, who is in the process of inviting Will for a game of football that Joe’s men have started with some men from 7th platoon.</p><p>Will sees Tom and must deduce something has happened, because he immediately makes his excuses.  “I’ve a letter to write,” he tells Private Northcott apologetically, “but if you’re still going in an hour, I’ll come join.”</p><p>Tom crowds in as close to Will as they can both bear as Northcott shrugs agreeably.  He can’t even wait for Northcott to leave before he’s blurting out “What were you thinking?!”</p><p>Will frowns at him, looking concerned.  “What happened, Tom?” he asks once Northcott is out of earshot.  </p><p>“You ran across the battlefield to get to Mackenzie,” Tom says, still feeling hysterical.  Will stills in surprise. Tom almost hopes that Will will deny it, then, and tell him something else is what really happened. </p><p>“Where’d you hear that?” Will asks.  He doesn’t agree or disagree; he just looks uncomfortable.</p><p>“You did, didn’t you?”  But Tom doesn’t need his friend to answer that.  He can see it in how Will won’t meet his eyes. “What.  The bloody <em> hell. </em>  Were you thinking?”</p><p>Will stares at him, open-mouthed in shock.  “Er,” he says, looking confused.</p><p>Tom just looks at him.  He doesn’t know what to think.  Did Will actually lose it?  Was he simply not capable of making a sound judgement, then?  Does Will just not value his own life?  Or -- Tom starts to feel ill.  Maybe it’s something else.  Was it because Tom was urging him on so badly?  Will hadn’t really seemed all there, in the woods with D Company, and Tom had pushed and pushed for him to continue the mission -- is it Tom’s fault?  </p><p>For Christ’s sake, Will wouldn’t even go and get checked at the bloody Aid Post until Tom nagged him so --</p><p>“What’d the medical officers say about your hand?” Tom asks abruptly, gesturing to the bandage wrapped around Will’s palm.  It’s a fresh dressing, so Will must’ve gone like he promised.</p><p>Will’s bemusement goes stiff.  Then, he obviously makes a conscious effort to relax it.  “Don’t worry about it, Tom.”</p><p>Tom <em> stares. </em>   He is gripped with a sudden, terrible fear.  He remembers when the pilot stabbed him and he had the unshakeable knowledge of his own end; he feels something like that now, seeing Will stubbornly keep Tom <em> away, </em> keeping him <em> out -- </em></p><p>-- Tom feels his temper snap.  Will won’t let Tom help -- but Tom’s a ghost now, isn’t he?  And ghosts haunt things, don’t they?  He reaches out and snatches at the bandage --</p><p>-- feels himself sink into loosely-woven cotton threads, a simple, narrow weave, layered and layered and layered again to protect a wound --</p><p>-- feels himself thrown out.  With a startling thud, Tom finds himself sprawled on the ground at Will’s feet.</p><p>Will is white and his movements jerky as he thrusts his hand into his pocket, out of sight.  He holds it in there with his other hand, arm across his chest, hunching away. “Don’t,” he says, voice low and hard.  He is <em> furious,</em> Tom sees now.  “Just -- don’t, Tom.”</p><p>Tom feels like he wants to cry.  It must be infected; it must be bad, or Will wouldn't keep it from Tom like this.  He is sure he has killed Will just as surely as the pilot has killed him.  “It’s all my fault, isn’t it?” Tom chokes out.  He holds his head in his hands and hides his face; he can’t bear to look at his friend.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just -- “</p><p>Skin creeping with horror, Tom sees it all again: <em> the tripwire, the explosion -- Will, half-dead, buried alive -- shot and bleeding out on stairs -- crawling through the woods, drowned to within an inch of his life -- sprinting across a battlefield, being blown to bits by explosive shells -- </em> and again, and again, and again --</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em>April 11th</em>
</p><p>Tom isn’t sure when the nightmare images stop plaguing him.  He just becomes conscious, eventually, of warmth -- and Will’s heartbeat.  Tom is back inside the tin for the first time since the hellish end of their mission nearly four days ago.  If Tom didn’t feel so numb, he thinks he might be comforted by the gesture.</p><p>He doesn’t make any effort to get out.  He feels . . . wan, and weak.  He just sits.</p><p>Eventually, thoughts start to come to him.</p><p>Tom likes to think he’s good at resolving any problems he faces -- or, at least, he sees that they <em> do </em> get resolved, one way or another.  Back home, it didn’t matter what happened; he always made amends.  Whether it was apologising or taking action to make things right, Tom never had trouble with getting it done.</p><p>This?  This is different, though.  Apologising is not nearly enough for what Tom’s done this time.  And how can he even remotely <em> begin </em> to work to make it up to Will?  Tom’s choices didn’t just put Will in peril -- they <em> killed Tom. </em>  What can a ghost do to help someone still alive besides watch and wait?  </p><p>. . . and what can a ghost do for someone who doesn’t want to be helped?  </p><p>Tom is bitterly reminded that when he first met Will, his motivations for befriending the older soldier were fairly selfish.  Most of the others thought Will was far too dull, or too serious, or too dour to be worth cultivating, but Tom saw it as a challenge -- surely, of all people, Tom could be the one who got Will to open up a little.  To be less of a stick-in-the-mud.  </p><p>Bloody hell, but he was paying for it now.  They both were.</p><p>Tom creeps out of the tin eventually; it is well before dawn.  Around him, the camp sleeps.</p><p>So does Will, who lies curled on his side.  One hand clutches his breast-pocket, where the tin is.  His sleep is not peaceful, either; he is restless, eyes flickering in all directions beneath his lids.  Fever dreams, probably.  Tom feels helpless. What can he do? <em> What can he do? </em></p><p>Tom leaves the billet.  He can’t be here; he needs to think.  Or not think. Or -- </p><p>Maybe -- maybe he can talk to Joe.  He knows Joe can’t hear him now, but maybe talking it out to a familiar face will help.  Maybe. Sometimes Tom did that back at home, when he was having trouble with a friend. Joe gave good advice, sometimes.</p><p>Tom looks all over the camp as the sky slowly starts to lighten.  He can’t find his brother; not in his bed, not at any of the posts, not in the officers’ club.  </p><p>While he stands by the officers’ club entrance, he notices some furtive movement.  It’s -- shite. It’s Will. He looks like he’s just out for a casual walk, but Tom sees the way Will looks intently at everything, a gaze sometimes as piercing as the Grim’s.  Will is searching for something and trying to be unobtrusive about it. But Tom -- Tom can’t face him.  Not yet.  Panicking, Tom darts into the stairwell that leads down to Headquarters and -- of course; Will can’t possibly come in here.  Not unless he is summoned.  And -- and Joe will be here at some point.  Tom can wait for Joe here.    </p><p>Inside, Tom sits in a corner.  He doesn’t bother with any of the chairs, he just sits on the floor and tries not to think about how he’s hiding from his best friend.  Tom is not a coward.  He’s not.  It’s just -- Tom doesn’t even know, anymore. He is miserable.</p><p>Mackenzie is here already, eating from a steaming plate.  He shovels it in without pausing to savour any of it.  Tom watches as the Colonel picks through written reports and spends long moments tracing troop movements on the maps.  </p><p>The only other person present is the telegraphist, who looks as though he’s been up all night.  Tom doesn’t know much about telegraphs, but he doesn’t envy them their work if they have such lengthy shifts.  </p><p>While Tom watches, the man suddenly stiffens.  He snatches up a pad of paper and a lead pencil and starts writing something out.  Curious, Tom gets up and drifts behind the telegraphist to try to read the message over his shoulder.</p><p><em> THIS IS NOT HOW TRANSFERS WORK STOP  </em>the telegraphist writes in neat block lettering. <em>  ARE YOU CERTAIN QUERY  </em></p><p>When he’s taken down the body of the message, the telegraphist goes back to the top and adds <em> FROM ERINMORE. </em>  “Message, Sir,” he says when he is finished.  He rips the paper off the pad and hands it to Mackenzie.</p><p>Mackenzie reads it and snorts with amusement.  “Send a reply,” he says crisply, and pauses until the telegraphist gives him a nod to continue.  “Just do it you twat, stop.” Tom chokes at the unexpected obscenity; the telegraphist doesn’t even blink as he flicks away at the switch of the little contraption.  “Regards, Mackenzie, stop.”  </p><p>“Message transmitted, Sir.”</p><p>More men -- officers, mostly, including Major Hepburn -- start to trickle in.  Headquarters gets more lively. The telegraphist’s replacement -- a fresh-faced 19-year-old who still hasn’t grown into his extremities -- comes in and takes over for the previous one.  </p><p>Tom stays by the telegraph, finding himself intrigued by the machine and the messages.  <em> GERMAN POSITION IN ARRAS CONFIRMED STOP </em> reads one; <em> GERMANS RETREAT FROM SOMME STOP </em> reads another.  One, again from Erinmore, says <em> FINE STOP TRANSFER CONFIRMED STOP. </em>  Mackenzie reads them all with hardly a twitch and calmly dispenses orders, requesting messages sent to various units and men.</p><p>Tom finds himself somewhat lulled by the activity.  He is pulled out of his thoughts constantly, which -- maybe not a good thing, but -- they’re all running in circles anyway.  And he’s waiting for Joe to arrive to talk them out, so.  </p><p>Midmorning comes and goes, and with it, a flurry of men.  Lunch brings a lull, and orderlies with plates of food for the officers present.  Tom gets restless.  He does not always quite understand everything that is going on, so even the constant activity in Headquarters becomes dull.  Bored with what is happening around him, his attention starts to drift inward.  Tom starts to fret.</p><p>He is on the verge of leaving to canvas the camp again in search of Joe when Will comes into Headquarters.  </p><p>They see each other in the same instant.  In his friend’s face, Tom sees shock, followed by intense relief.  Will hides it quickly, though, saluting and coming to attention for Mackenzie and the other officers present.  </p><p>Tom stands frozen.  He wants to go stand by Will, he does -- but he doesn’t, too; and that’s the rub, isn’t it?  Tom is responsible for so much of what has happened to Will and he can hardly bear to face it.  Maybe Tom should leave and find another hiding place until he knows what he wants to do -- but no, they’d only call Will here if they were about to order him back to the 8th.  Tom won’t be able to talk to his brother; he’s run out of <em> time -- </em></p><p>His brother comes in, hurrying a little down the stairs.  He, too, salutes, and moves to stand next to Will. Joe does not look in the least surprised by what is going on.  In fact, Tom is jolted out of his burgeoning panic by the all-too-familiar expression his brother wears; the last time Tom saw it, Joe had talked Mother and Father into adopting the house cat, a stray with a beastly temper it took out on everyone (except Joe, the bastard).</p><p>“Lance Corporal Schofield,” Mackenzie says coolly, flanked by Major Hepburn.  </p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says.  It’s clear to Tom that he has no idea what is going on -- he looks like someone who was recently under great strain, but who is hiding it well.  Tom thinks of the way Will searched for him earlier and feels a flash of shame. It suits the guilt well enough, at least.</p><p>“For outstanding merit in the field, you are promoted to the rank of Sergeant,” the Colonel says.  “You have also been transferred from the 8th to the 2nd Devonshire, as per my request. You will serve in the 5th Platoon, B Company, under Lieutenant Blake.”   </p><p>In a long beat of silence, Major Hepburn ceremoniously hands Joe two triple-chevron badges.  Joe hands them to Will.  </p><p>“What,” Tom says blankly. </p><p>Will hasn’t blinked so much as frozen stock-still.  His throat works for a moment as he takes the badges.  “Thank you, Sir,” he says finally, voice oddly strangled.</p><p>“Congratulations,” Joe says, and claps him on the shoulder.  Will, pasty-white, looks at him helplessly.</p><p>“Lieutenant Blake will fill you in on your new duties,” Colonel Mackenzie says with finality.  “Welcome to the 2nd, Sergeant.”</p><p>Will salutes, as does Joe.  It is when Joe maneuvers Will around and out that Will seems to break out of his shock; he looks sharply -- worriedly -- at Tom.  Tom winces, a little, and Will’s expression slides into that of desperation.  </p><p>Tom starts to feel the <em> tug -- </em>  </p><p>“Alright, alright!” he says, and makes quickly for the door.  Will’s hold on him falters and dies to nothing. “I’m coming. I’m coming, alright?”</p><p>Tom follows them, up, then out the door.  Here Joe stops and gives Will a more personal welcome into the 2nd.  “I’m glad to have you,” he tells Will sincerely.  Will looks -- briefly -- hysterically amused, before marshaling his expression into one of appropriate gravity.  Mother would approve.  </p><p>“Thank you, Sir,” he says.</p><p>“Blake is fine,” Joe says.  Seeing Will’s flinch, he adds: “Joseph, if we’re to ourselves.”</p><p>Will nods.  He holds out his hand.  “Tom calls --” he falters, but carries through. “-- called me Scho; call me Will.”</p><p>“Pleasure to meet you, Will,” Joe says, shaking Will’s hand.  </p><p>It is -- it is so confusing.  Tom follows them through it all, feeling lost: Joe introducing Will to the rest of the men in the 5th Platoon, Joe showing Will the Sergeants’ mess,  Joe explaining throughout how he and Will’s fellow Sergeants -- <em> fellow Sergeants -- </em> whoever heard of a promotion two ranks above -- met to hash out running the platoon.  If it weren’t for the frequent <em> look </em> Will finds a way to pin him with, every few minutes, Tom’s not sure he’d be able to manage.  He’s not sure what’s happening, or why things should be so seemingly benign.  Will has a terrible infection; it will take his hand at the least, and possibly his life.  Why is everything so normal?  But every time Tom feels that tugging in his gut, he startles out of the fugue he’s in and rejects it sharply.  “No,” he says to Will. “No, I’m still here.”  Time, and time, and time again.</p><p>Joe finally leaves off, called to attend an urgent message.  Or something. They’re in the wood near where Will stumbled on D Company, four days ago.  Will ducks behind a tree as soon as Joe is far enough away not to hear. </p><p><em> “Tom,” </em>  Will says, turning, looking for him.  His voice cracks raggedly through Tom's name.  He sees Tom and Tom feels -- pierced.  He never thought of Will’s eyes as uncanny, but now, he can’t help but notice the Grim’s fey light in them.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Tom says.  It’s all he can think to say.  It bubbles up, an endless torrent: “I’m sorry, Will, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry--”</p><p>“Look, Tom,” Will interrupts, tone commanding.  He tugs the dressing off his hand and shows it to Tom.  “Look. Breathe. Look at my hand.”</p><p>Tom looks.</p><p>The wound -- five days old, now -- is a thin red line, off-centre in the palm of Will’s hand between his thumb and forefinger.  There is no sickly-swollen flesh, no threads of green.  It looks to be scarring nicely, if anything.</p><p>“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Will says, voice shaking.  “I’m sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean it.  I just -- it was infected, I know it was, but then the Grim bit it and it wasn’t anymore, and I was scared.  I'm scared, alright?  I’m not -- I’m not dying, or whatever you think is happening.  I promise.”</p><p>Tom stands there, hands cupped around Will’s as though they could touch.  He looks, and looks, and looks.  And Will is not dying.  Tom swallows down the clamour in his throat that insists <em>it's his fault! His! He is the reason Will is here!</em> -- it has no place in this moment. </p><p>Tom isn’t sure how, yet, but this -- looking up at his worried friend who has given so much, so much, to him and his brother, both -- this he swears: Tom will not let Will die in this war.</p><p>"You deserve better," he says, throat closing tight on all the things he could say.</p><p>"I've got you," Will says. </p><p>It is, Tom thinks, cold comfort indeed. </p><hr/><p>Bonus: <a href="https://marbat.tumblr.com/post/612522122731012096/a-goofy-little-comic-i-made-after-a-chat-with">Pavuvu's comic rendering</a> of Erinmore and Mackenzie's conversation via telegram!</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guys!  Welcome back :)  The Continuing Adventures of William Schofield and Thomas Blake begins!</p><p>This will be a multi-chaptered fic charting the events of the year following the movie.  Please believe me when I say that there will be much research, serious thought, and "fuck it" involved.  Since I'm not relying on the superb acting and visuals of the movie, I anticipate that my pace will slow a bit -- probably just one chapter each week -- but with luck, my school will close!  And in the free time wherein I create online curricula for my wayward students I will be able to ensure both quantity and quality :)  </p><p>As always, thank you to the AMAZING and INCREDIBLE Pavuvu.  Pavuvu is light, life, and love.  Shoutout to my husband, too, who is highly perplexed by all my excitement over a one-off WWI movie and waits forlornly for me to return to playing Subnautica.</p><p>(Fun fact about your friendly author: she is approximately four days older than George MacKay.  Unfortunately, she could not wrangle a chapter to be posted on her actual birthday, so no Hobbit parties for us D: )</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Interlude I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The correspondence of Lieutenant Joseph Andrew Blake, dating from March 29 - June 18, 1917.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> March 29, 1917 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Joseph, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I do wish you are to be doing things in the future that will not require such attention from the censors.  Your last letter was half blacked-out and we were barely able to understand more than your questions to us!  Nevertheless, we know you are very busy running your Platoon and appreciate each and every letter you are able to send to us.  Your father and I are both very proud of you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We are all in a tizzy getting ready for Tom’s leave.  It will be his first since his deployment! We are going around trying to get our hands on all of his favorite foods to make it special, though many things remain scarce here at home.  I hope the cherries will be in fruit by the time he returns; then I will not have to find someone else to pick them all for me. I will make sure I have cherry jam just the way you like it when you are next able to visit. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your father is very excited -- Myrtle has had her litter at last and the pups are all beautiful.  He has high hopes for two females, one lightly blue and one blue roan; he thinks they already show signs of being fine hunters, as they are constantly pushing all the other pups out of the way in the kennel around their mother.  (There is a third female who is also lightly blue, and two males that are roan, though not nearly so much as the roan female.) When you come home, you will doubtless be able to help him when he starts training them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your father worries, as always; you know how quiet he is about it.  Still, between your letters being so thoroughly treated by the censors and his leg (you recall how it troubles him when the season changes), he hardly speaks.  Can you write to him to reassure him of your health? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With all our love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your Mother </em>
</p><p>
  <em> ~ * ~ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> April 16, 1917 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Joseph </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We have received a horrible letter from some stranger.  Are you acquainted with a Mr William Schofield? He has written to your father and I with some story about how Tom has been killed.  I know that if it were true, the Army would have contacted us already. Can you please look into this matter? I would appreciate hearing from Tom directly, but I will settle for an investigation into Mr Schofield’s character. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please write back when you are able, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your Mother </em>
</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>April 25, 1917</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>I am certain that by now, you have received the news already from a Mr William Schofield, and possibly by the time this letter reaches you, by the army as well.  I have already received Mother’s letter requesting that I clarify the situation, which I will write in due course. But it is true.  </p><p>I am sorry that I have not written sooner.  I know it would have been better hearing it from me than it has been learning it from strangers.  I have found it difficult to come to terms with the news and have wasted a large quantity of my paper and ink trying to find the right things to say.</p><p>I am certain that whatever Mr Schofield has written is the best account that you will be able to find.  He and Tom were on a mission together when it happened. He sought me out of his own initiative to give me the news afterward, which was, I think, very difficult for him personally.  Tom wrote to me on several occasions about Mr Schofield; they were close friends in the 8th.  </p><p>I think I see now why you wanted only one son to go to war and advocated against Tom’s enlistment, and I regret I did not try to persuade him to wait for the government’s call or take up studying in America.  I wish I had been a wiser brother in that regard.</p><p>Your son,</p><p>Joseph Blake</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>April 25, 1917</p><p>Dear Mother,</p><p>I have received your letter about Tom.  I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner.</p><p>I know it is difficult, but please do not disparage Mr William Schofield.  He took it upon himself to give me the news in person and I have no cause to doubt his compassion.  He has the look of a man who has shared great suffering.  </p><p>I will do my best to return to you, sooner rather than later, and all in one piece so that we may mourn Tom properly.  As it so happens, I have a new Sergeant; he is recently-promoted, but very competent. I am sure that he will keep me out of trouble!  I can only hope I do the same for him.</p><p>I would like to come home and see Myrtle’s new litter; I am scheduled for leave in just two months.  Have you found anyone who can pick the cherries for you, yet?</p><p>Your loving son,</p><p>Joseph</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> May 2, 1917 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Joseph, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I cannot pretend it is not a terrible shock.  Your mother has not taken it well. It is best if you come home on leave soon. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please, write to us -- anything you can say, anything at all.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> your Father</em>
</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>May 12, 1917</p><p>Dear Mother and Father,</p><p>Two days ago, we were treated to actual meat.  Real meat, not from a can! We found some French cows and the Colonel decided one was necessary for advancement.  As a result, the officers all were treated to fresh roasts. I doubt the field kitchen cooks were pleased with the necessity of finding appropriate methods for roasting, but we enjoyed their efforts nevertheless.  </p><p>I am doing my best to keep on.  My new Sergeant has a marvelous way of making the men think it is their idea to do almost all the work they are ordered to do; it has eased some of the burden considerably.</p><p>Meanwhile, some storms have swept through.  It seems we are not done with the poor weather, yet.  The line we are at is slowly miring itself into swamp, though it was perfectly good farmland not two months ago!  The men complain, and with good reason -- it is difficult to remain dry in such situations, which makes for miserable sleep.</p><p>I am counting the days until leave.  I am absolutely ecstatic at the thought of Mother’s cherry pie!  I should be leaving June 29th or so.   </p><p>Your son,</p><p>Joseph</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> May 23, 1917 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Dear Joseph, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It is wonderful to hear from you, as always.  Here, the newspapers report that our boys are getting three hot meals a day -- you would tell us if this wasn’t so, wouldn’t you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your friend Albert Carlton has returned home on medical discharge.  It seems he lost a leg at the Front some months ago, but he already has some practice getting around on a wooden one!  He told us his father began carving it from an old table leg as soon as he wrote home with the news when he came to call the other day.  We had a pleasant afternoon tea entertaining him. I do not know if you have kept in touch with him, but you should write him a letter if you have not.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The little Prescott girls from down the lane were most obliging and helped your father and I with the cherries.  They are all much older now, than when you left. Lilian, the eldest, is 16 now, and is very lovely -- she helped me with the jam making as well.  She asked me to remember her to you and inquired about your welfare. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Myrtle’s litter are coming along fine.  Your father thinks he can begin training them within another two weeks and is anticipating having them ready to show some preliminary behaviours when you arrive home.  I will have a pie ready for you when you arrive.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This is the second time you’ve mentioned your new Sergeant.  Have you become friends? And what happened to your previous Sergeant -- Everard, was it? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With all our love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your Mother and Father </em>
</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>May 31, 1917</p><p>Dear Mother and Father,</p><p>My platoon has been fortunate enough that the men are all in good spirits and high in camaraderie.  Early in the year they pooled together some money and purchased a small Primus stove, which has since been used when we are on the Front lines to reheat what the kitchen staff sends forward to us.  The army does its best, but the field kitchens are situated far behind the lines, and there are many units other than ours to deliver to in that instance.</p><p>I am glad to hear Albert has come through all right.  I hadn’t heard what became of him in some time, and could not get reliable news of his whereabouts.  I will send a letter to him shortly, now that I know he is safely at home and enjoying all its comforts.  </p><p>Sergeant Everard was killed in action in April.  It was a great loss. He had served in the army for nearly twelve years and I considered him indispensable in the running of the platoon.  The men were all very disheartened by it.</p><p>I am not sure if I would consider my new Sergeant a friend, yet, but -- well.  There is a connection. I am certain you recall Mr Schofield? Our Colonel decided to promote him and -- it is probably best if I start at the beginning, though, and relate the whole tale.  As it turns out, he and Tom were tasked with carrying critical intelligence to the Colonel. It was intelligence that likely saved the lives of everyone in the Battalion. Somehow or another (no one can quite seem to explain why to me), this so impressed the Colonel that he decided to promote the man a few days later.  Naturally, they thought he would best fit with me and my men.</p><p>Before you begin, Mother, I’d like to state that whatever reservations I may have had have proved entirely specious.  As I wrote before, he has already demonstrated great character personally towards us with regards to Tom. Since then, he has shown nothing that would indicate any personal failings.</p><p>Your loving son,</p><p>Joseph</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> June 9, 1917 </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My son, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I think sometimes you were blessed with greater foresight than either your mother or your brother; it was wise of you to refrain from writing about your new Sergeant for some time.  Alas, that you did not resist provoking your mother with such conspicuous hints. She is, as you probably expect, apoplectic at the thought of his being your new officer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If you do not mind, could you write to me about what has raised this man in your esteem?  His letter to us was sober and appropriate to be sure, but that is hard to point out when your mother’s first impression is that it is a charlatan’s work.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your mother would fill this space with cheerful gossip, which is why she so often writes the letters for us.  I think she mentioned Lilian Prescott? She is very sweet, but please reserve judgement on her suitability for when you are home to evaluate it yourself.  I rather think Edith has a better head on her shoulders, though she is of course far too young for you. Best if you just stick to the trenches.   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Be well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With love, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> your Father </em>
</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>June 12, 1917</p><p>Dear Mother and Father,</p><p>I have just got word -- my leave has been cancelled.  I do not know for what reason, or when I will be able to come home.  I will write more when I have the chance.</p><p>I have not yet received a response to my last letter, but I thought I would relay this to you anyway.  I managed to make Sergeant Schofield laugh the other day; he is such a dour man, I almost cannot understand why Tom would have written to me about him so much -- but it seems enough alcohol will lubricate even the most recalcitrant of men.  (Yes, I know. Mother, I have learned well.) He was able to tell me how Tom managed to trick their previous Sergeant into granting them a day’s leave, which they spent (according to him) trying to find and count as many dogs as they saw within a day’s march of their encampment.  It seems as though Tom had the fancier’s eye all along.</p><p>Your son,</p><p>Joseph</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>June 18, 1917</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>Had I received your letter in time, I would not have sent off my last.  Or would I? Frankly, it is hard to say. Mother has always been better at such machinations.  </p><p>Mr Schofield has proved an adept Sergeant.  He has a way of connecting with the men that I do not -- he has experienced their troubles and this experience lends him great ethos.  Though some of the men do not necessarily like him, they all certainly afford him more than the obligatory respect due a superior officer.</p><p>He is very private.  He has been under my command for almost two months, now, and I still know very little about his personal life.  He treats me respectfully and does his best to keep an appropriate distance between us. At most, I can only speculate that he has connections to the tailor craft, for he once took personal offence to the Company batman’s treatment of my tunic and sorted it out in short order.  Since then, he has not permitted the batman to do anything but launder it.  </p><p>Apart from that, I have to say that upon getting to know him a little more, I have a strong sense that he is not a bad fellow.  There is nothing more I can say without fear of the censors blackening it out, so I will leave it at that.</p><p>Rattling some bushes with regards to my leave being stopped -- nothing.  I am still trying to find out why it has been cancelled.   </p><p>Your loving son,</p><p>Joseph</p><hr/><p>(And have some silliness.  From me, to Pavuvu: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4MTObl7Wpk">"we got dirt"</a> aka "we got mud" cuz it's 1917 yooo)</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello everybody!  Thank you for your patience as quarantine breathes down our necks.  I was totally joking about having school cancelled (I am an English teacher) in my previous author's notes, and then literally within 18 hours . . . yeah.  CRAZY STUFF.</p><p>Some news: Pavuvu is totally God, can confirm.  </p><p>Some other news: I found A WHOLE BOOK about the 8th Division in WWI that apparently has ALL THE THINGS described IN GREAT DETAIL!!!  It was a hard decision, but when I started writing a story about ghosts and other supernatural elements, I was committed to making sure everything else was as accurate as possible; so I am waiting for this amazing book to arrive so that I can finish the next chapter, which is already at 8k+ words.  (There will be a monstrous bibliography posted at some point, by the way.)</p><p>Lastly, feel free to chat with Pavuvu and me!  @marbat and @lizofalltrades in tumblr, yo!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. July 29th - August 2nd, 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Third Battle of Ypres begins.  Blake has an unhappy realisation of the limitations of being a ghost.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Track for the series as a whole, but this chapter in particular: <a href="https://youtu.be/DWm6nfGGoyo"><em>Pale White Horse</em></a> by the Oh Hellos.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <span class="small">(Have some Schofield &amp; Blake, courtesy of <a href="https://marbat.tumblr.com/post/612885002897817600/a-little-sketch-for-the-1917-ghostau-series-im">Pavuvu</a>!  She is the best it's so great this has been my phone wallpaper for like two weeks guys)</span>
</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> July 29th </em>
</p><p>Tom returns from his jaunt around camp collecting fellow ghosts just in time to watch Will get downright motherly.</p><p>“Right,” Will says in the mostly-empty billet, resigned.  He puts down the pen he’s holding -- he looks to be in the middle of writing something -- and holds out a hand.  “Give it over, Pickering.”</p><p>Private Pickering looks up, bewildered.  He’s attempting to fix a hole in his pocket with a borrowed needle and some spare thread.  Tom remembers this had made Pickering the butt of a joke earlier in the day when he’d pocketed some extra ammunition and it had gone straight through -- probably why he’s trying to fix it now, while no one is around.</p><p>“Er.  Sorry, Sir?” he says.</p><p>Will sighs.  “You’re doing it wrong,” he tells the Private.  “Come over here -- let me show you.”</p><p>Pickering gets up -- perhaps reluctantly, but it <em> is </em> an unusual request from a Sergeant.  He hands over his tunic without complaint, though.</p><p>One of the French ghosts Tom’s found -- Jean something -- leans in close.  <em>"C’est lui? </em>” he whispers to Tom. </p><p>“Yeah, he’s the one.  The Sergeant, the one with the medal -- see? -- That’s Sergeant Schofield.  Hold on a moment and he’ll sort you out,” Tom reassures him in the same language.  Will is carefully cutting stitches with the tiny pair of scissors from the sewing kit and giving Pickering quiet instructions about repairing . . . bellows pockets?  “He can’t talk to us right now because otherwise the other one will think he’s nuts, but he knows we’re here.”</p><p>The oldest of the ghosts -- well, the oldest one who was dead, anyway, he died maybe a week ago but he was definitely 30 if he was a day -- makes a very French noise of disbelief.  “We need to <em> move on,” </em> he begins, agitated.</p><p>“And I’ll help you move on right on out of here if you don’t wait patiently,” Tom cuts in, warning him off poor behaviour before he even starts.  “He already got in trouble once for helping us out and I’m <em> not </em> letting him get in trouble again.”</p><p>The third ghost (Pierre, Tom remembers vaguely) elbows the oldest one.  “Shut up, Leon.”</p><p>“We’ve waited this long.  A little longer isn’t such a bad thing,” Jean says gently.  Leon fumes.</p><p>Will is deftly trimming away the torn fabric.  “Reach in my pack -- there’s an old shirt at the bottom.  We can use that to fix this,” he tells Pickering.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Pickering says, and gets up to go rummage through Will’s pack on the other side of the room.</p><p>The moment the Private is kneeling down to open the pack, Will’s hands still and his eyes slide over to stare at Leon.  All four of them -- even Tom, and he’s used to this by now, too! -- stiffen and freeze. Will looks Leon over once, then crooks a finger and casually lifts it to trace the shoulder seam on his tunic.  Leon manages some sort of distinctly-not-French <em> eep! </em> noise in surprise, before <em> zip! </em>  There he goes, all tucked into the seam.  Will goes back to snipping with his tiny scissors.</p><p>“He only does that to the ones who upset others, like you two,” Tom says candidly to Jean and Pierre.  They both look suitably impressed.</p><p>Pickering comes back, shirt in hand.  “This one, Sir?”</p><p>“Yes,” Will says, and takes it.  He traces out a rectangle and goes back to explaining what Pickering should do next time he tears a pocket.</p><p>This will take a while.  Knowing Will, he won’t stop until he’s straightened out Pickering’s badges, tightened his buttons, and darned his socks.  Tom turns to Pierre, the youngest ghost. “Did you have anything on you when you died?” he asks.</p><p>The three of them get into a highly informative conversation about their ghost possessions.  As it turns out, Pierre was shot while in possession of a full bottle of wine, which stays material so long as Pierre is the one holding it.  Jean and Tom get a nice drink out of that, especially once Tom starts telling stories about his and Will’s exploits.  </p><p>“And then -- can you believe it -- he goes over and runs <em> in front of the line </em> -- in full view of the Bosche, mind -- all the way to the Colonel.  Can you believe it?” </p><p>“No no, it is not poss’ble.  Possib’. Possible,” Pierre hiccoughs.  He holds the wine out unsteadily for Jean, who declines, and Tom, who enjoys a taste.  Everything is nicely fuzzy at the moment.  </p><p>“Yeah, but that’s just it.  <em> That is what happened.” </em>  Tom accepts another drink from Pierre.  “They made a big deal out of it,” Tom continues, relishing this bit most particularly.  “In front of the whole Battalion, the Colonel awarded him a medal for bravery!”  </p><p>By now, Will has stitched about half of the pocket and is making Pickering do the rest now that ‘the seams are set.’  </p><p>Jean mimes toasting Will.  “And well deserved,” he says as some other (living) Privates stumble in, laughing.  Pierre joins in, holding the bottle in Will’s direction and saluting with his other hand.</p><p>“I trust you can finish the rest properly?”  Will asks the Private politely. The command is implied, but clear.  Pickering takes to it gladly now that there’s an audience.</p><p>“Yes, Sir.”</p><p>“Excuse me, then.”  And Will gets up.</p><p>Tom shoves at the other ghosts, herding them for the door.  “Now’s the time, boys, come on,” he says.</p><p>Outside, the sky is clear -- thank goodness.  The unseasonable rain earlier had everyone on edge.  The moon is just beginning to rise, waxing full.  </p><p>Their stretch of the trench is empty, for the moment.  Will looks at the three of them. “Are you ready?” he asks.</p><p>Jean and Pierre nod, arrested.  Will nods, a small salute, and they swirl into the faint shine of his buttons.</p><p>“You’ve been busy,” he remarks to Tom, and starts for the rear.</p><p><br/>
<span class="small">art by @<a href="https://schratfield.tumblr.com/post/623972406263939072/i-keep-indulging-myself-on-some">schratfield</a>/@baylardo!  aaaa!</span></p><p>“As have you,” Tom replies easily.  The silliness of the wine is dissipating with every step.  Damn that ghost wine -- it never lasts. “Teaching Pickering to fix his own pockets?  You should just hold classes for the lads in basic mending.”</p><p>“Don’t tempt me.  Some of them <em> need </em> it,” Will replies.</p><p>“After you took over keeping Joe’s uniform in good repair?  And he let you keep doing it when he saw you doing better than the batman?  They’d listen.” Tom likes the idea, actually, now that he’s thinking of it.  </p><p>Will just makes a face.  “I’m not giving mandatory sewing lessons, Tom.  There’s better things to do.”</p><p>“Like leave it all for you to do?”</p><p>Will’s fingers twitch, a bit, but he doesn’t respond otherwise.  Boo. “You mentioned that you were able to find a graveyard nearby?” he asks instead.</p><p>“Yeah.  It’s not too far from here.  But I thought you’d want to go check the Aid Posts, first?”   </p><p>Will nods.  “There’s always one or two,” he says.  Tom knows Will is not wrong. </p><p>“Well, if you want to avoid Joseph’s invitation for a post-supper meeting before you meet to go over orders, save the ones near Headquarters for last,” Tom advises.  “He’s going to be there for another hour at least before heading back for 5th Platoon. You can give him the slip if you wait until after he’s gone to pick up those ghosts.”</p><p>Will makes a face and changes directions.  It’ll be a longer route, but Tom knows Will would prefer not having to make awkward excuses to cover the fact that he is going to go lurk in a graveyard and meet a giant magic dog at midnight.</p><p>Tom has learned a lot about the battalion’s medical facilities since that first frantic search on April 7th, now three months past.  It was all a blur that day, what with barely hanging on to his own corporeality. In the months since, he’s learned that there is a tremendous amount of medical activity within the battalion, and that each stop along the way can have the dead haunting the corners.  He and Will circumambulate the camp, starting with the Regimental Aid Posts -- a soldier’s first stop if they’ve been wounded, as it is usually the closest to the front line. Most of the time, the soldiers who were very badly injured and not likely to recover or get adequate treatment in time -- “moribund,” Tom heard an officer say once -- made it here only to die from shock or blood loss.  Will finds three soldiers in the Aid Posts today and threads them through the stitch-seams of his pockets, whispering assurances that he will help relieve them from the pain as he does so.     </p><p>Fortunately, the trips through the Advanced Dressing Stations and the Main Dressing Stations are less fraught.  Usually, if a soldier makes it to these, chances are he is not in immediate danger of death. They do not find anyone waiting for Will’s guidance here.  </p><p>The Casualty Clearing Stations at the rear, though, are usually the worst part of this patrol.  The most serious cases -- those expected to have a decent chance of survival -- are sent here, usually to receive some sort of emergency medical treatment to help them survive long enough to be evacuated to a hospital.  But not all soldiers live to be evacuated. To Tom’s dismay, it seems there was a shell that hit a trench today, to the abominable luck of the dugout it landed in. (Not one of the 2nd’s positions, fortunately.) There are three soldiers here, horribly disfigured, awaiting evacuation -- and there are three who did not survive, but haven’t realised it yet.  Tom has to help Will coax them into being woven into his tunic lining as they are all half-deafened from the explosion that eventually killed them.   </p><p>And finally -- <em> finally </em> -- they can make for the graveyard Tom just located two days ago.  It is way out of the way and under normal circumstances, Will would not have the time to make this journey.  But with Joe off at Headquarters for so long tonight, Will finally has the lack of oversight he needs to make his clandestine rendezvous with Death.</p><p>It’s going on eleven, now, but Will doesn’t seem to be affected by it beyond the lines deepening around his eyes and mouth.  He is carrying so many ghosts now, from three weeks’ worth of patrols. Tom genuinely doesn’t know how Will does it. He makes an effort to keep up a stream of light chatter to give his friend something to think about besides the dead as he leads Will to the churchyard.  </p><p>“And here we are,” Tom says with a flourish.  “One graveyard! As you can see, there’s a half-gone church behind it.  There were people here earlier, doing some fixing up, but it is sure to be deserted at this hour.”  </p><p>“I guess we’ll have to keep it down, just in case,” Will says, amused.</p><p>The graveyard itself is in good repair; the grasses inside have been trimmed recently.  Will heads straight for the tree that is still standing inside its walls. Its canopy is big enough to have provided substantial shelter for the ground around it from the rain earlier today, and so the earth is only a little damp at its roots.  Will sits with a sigh of relief.</p><p>Tom flops on the ground beside him and groans.  “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nap,” he says.  “Say -- you did get something to eat at supper, right?”</p><p>“Course I did,” Will says.  “There were beans for supper, this time.  They tasted like tea.”</p><p>“You know, I went back to the field kitchen once to see why nothing ever tasted like it should,” Tom says thoughtfully.  “Turns out they cook everything in these two great vats. They rotate them, too -- one cooks stew, and when it’s empty, they make tea.  They give it a quick rinse in between each time.”</p><p>Will searches his pockets and pulls the bread slice he saved from lunch and the bit of jam he won off Sergeant Addington when Addington had challenged him to a shooting contest four days ago.  Tom watches with no small amount of envy as Will scrapes it out of the tiny jar it’s been stored in with a finger and spreads it thinly on the slice. “That explains a lot,” Will says. He starts to take a bite and then stops, considering it. </p><p>“What, is it off?” Tom wants to know.</p><p>Will holds the slice out to Tom. </p><p>Tom stares at it.  “I can’t eat that,” he reminds Will.</p><p>“I know,” Will says slowly, frowning with thought.  “But what if you tried to haunt it?”  </p><p>“Why would I haunt a slice of bread?” Tom asks, baffled.</p><p>“You told me you feel warm whenever you’re in the tin and it’s in my pocket, right?”  Will pauses for a moment, thinking it through. “What if you could pick up other senses?”</p><p>Tom perks right up at that.  If there’s one thing he’s regretted for the last three months, it is that he didn’t have the forethought to die with anything good on him, like jam.  “Like taste!”</p><p>“Exactly,” Will says.  He jiggles the bread slice.  “Think of it as an experiment.”</p><p>“Well, if you’re sure . . . ”  Tom sits up and stretches out his hand -- </p><p>-- stiff, weirdly damp on one side; slimy, almost.  But no, Tom’s not interested in that. How would a ghost go about <em> tasting </em> an object they’re haunting?  Maybe . . . maybe if he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue -- you know, despite currently being bread and therefor not having a tongue -- Tom stops thinking about it and just tries.  </p><p><em> Jam! </em>   Sweet, tasting a little of raspberries!  Bread, too, though -- stale and a bit musty from being wrapped up in a handkerchief, not nearly as nice as the jam.  But jam! Tom hasn’t had jam since -- he can’t even remember honestly, and right now he doesn’t care because <em> this </em> jam is the best thing he can ever remember tasting.</p><p>“You alright, Tom?”  Will sounds like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.</p><p>Tom’s not sure why, but he realises he is lying on the ground, dreamily staring up at the stars above.  He blinks and Will’s face swims into focus. “What?”</p><p>“You just sort of fell out of it,” Will says.  There’s a smile twitching at the side of his mouth.  “You’re grinning like a loon.”</p><p>“It was delicious,” Tom says, slurring a little.  It’s like alcohol, the effect it has on him; he tries searching for the right words to explain it, but he’s having a hard time finding them.  “It was really, really good.”  </p><p>Will does laugh at that, quietly.  “Good,” he says. “I’m glad, then. It looks like it was a bit of a shock; just lie there a while until it passes.”</p><p>“How are you so <em> good </em> at this?” Tom says, despairingly.  “Do you know <em> everything </em> about ghosts?”</p><p>“No,” Will says.  The smile fades, but it’s not the bad sort of fading -- just thoughtful.  “It’s just lots of experience, I guess. I’ve been doing this since -- oh, since I were eleven?”</p><p>“Really?” Tom asks, surprised.  Will usually needed more prodding before he talked about anything like this.  “Did it just like. Start, y’know, for you? Like one day you woke up and <em> bam, </em> Mr Green who died last Tuesday was at the foot of your bed or --”</p><p>This startles a laugh out of his friend.  “No, no!” Will says. “No, not like that. It was a dare.”  He takes a bite of the bread.  </p><p>“. . . and?” Tom prompts, curious.</p><p>Will shrugs and swallows.  “Just a schoolyard prank, really.  ‘Stay in the graveyard at midnight to meet the Grim, face down Death itself’ -- that sort of thing.  So I did.”</p><p>“And that’s how you met the Grim.”</p><p>“That is how I met the Grim.” </p><p>“Huh,” Tom says.</p><p>They sit for a while, mirth fading into companionable quiet.  Will eats the bread slice slowly and with great deliberation.</p><p>“You’ve not got long,” Tom reminds him after a while when he feels a little more together.  “You can’t give Joe the slip forever; he will want to go over the orders he’s received tonight.”</p><p>“I‘ve got enough time,” Will says after pausing to swallow.  “Your brother is up until two every morning if he can manage it.  Last to bed and first to rise.”</p><p>“He didn’t use to be,” Tom says wistfully.  He remembers how it used to be him getting up the earliest, just to help Mother make tea first thing in the morning.  Joe liked to sleep until Father made him get up.</p><p>“It’s all this planning for the push,” Will says.  He cleans a smear of jam from his finger with the last bite of bread and eats it, savouring the taste.  Tom applauds his priorities; they’re unlikely to see more in the near future.</p><p>“Yeah.”  Tom is silent for a moment.  Then he sits up abruptly with an exclamation, remembering the conversation he overheard earlier.  “That’s right! I’ve got news for you -- you won’t believe what’s happening.”</p><p>“Oh?”  Will tucks the jar into his pocket.  “What’ve you heard, then?”</p><p>“It’s some of the French lads,” Tom begins.  Will points to the buttons of his uniform, questioningly.  Tom shakes his head and clarifies. “No, no, some of the living ones, not the ones for the Grim.  I overheard a couple boys coming through with the French divisions talking about a mutiny.”</p><p>“A mutiny?”  Will asks, recoiling a little in surprise.  Tom had had much the same reaction when he’d heard it, too: mutiny was unheard of in the British Army, and the worst crime a soldier could be charged with.  It was a death sentence.  </p><p>Tom nods, grimly.  “Sounds like. They weren’t giving too many details, but it appears like the French are having trouble getting their troops to fight.”</p><p>Will fingers the buttons Pierre and Jean are in, frowning.  Tom bets he’s thinking about calling them out and asking them some questions.  He probably won’t do it, though; Will’s not the type to hold things over on others.</p><p>“I bet that’s why we’re all the way up here,” Tom adds, putting some of the things he’s been thinking since hearing about it into words.  He waves a hand at the city in the distance. “A push out of Ypres -- well, they’ve tried it twice already, haven’t they? Don’t know what the brass are expecting from a third go.  But if it’s to shore up the French -- well, having us pick up the slack -- that’s just rude, that is.”</p><p>Will shrugs.  He looks a bit troubled, but he doesn’t seem to want to voice any thoughts.</p><p>“A mutiny, though.  Cowardice, d’you think?” Tom tries.  “Are they afraid of the fighting?”</p><p>“I’ve no idea,” Will says doubtfully.  “Maybe they’re all green. Not used to army discipline.”</p><p>“Maybe that’s it,” Tom says, frowning in thought.  “But they’ve been fighting for over three years. You’d think . . .”  He falls silent. Three years of fighting -- that is a lot of men crippled or dead.  That’s whole companies or battalions being rebuilt from scratch.  </p><p>But Will’s good mood seems to be gone, now, his mouth tight and his grip on his rifle tense, and it’s been a long day for him -- so Tom drops the subject.  Besides, it’s very nearly midnight -- but a moment or two away. Tom has learned how to feel that most important moment in time -- it’s something like an instinct, telling him he has somewhere to be.  Here in the churchyard, it’s also something like a call -- </p><p>The bell begins to toll and Will stands up to greet the Grim.  Tom presses in close behind him, bracing himself for when the lightning strikes.</p><p>
  <em> ~ * ~ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> July 30th </em>
</p><p>“Sergeant Schofield!”</p><p>Will looks up.  Private Tyndall is hurrying towards him, ducking around several other members of 5th Platoon.  Tom is shadowing him, breezing through anyone in his way. Will hopes there won’t be any more rumors of ill-fortune following momentous news, or whatever the soldiers come up with next time.</p><p>“Sir, Lieutenant Blake asks you to come to Headquarters, Sir,” says Private Tyndall.</p><p>“News,” Tom adds succinctly, obviously pleased with his morning reconnaissance.  He chose to spend the day trailing Joseph, claiming he’d had enough of trench foot while he was alive that he didn’t need to watch Will inspect the platoon’s feet for any signs of it.  “Mackenzie wants to go over the plans for tomorrow.”  </p><p>“Right now?”  Will asks both of them.</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” says Tyndall.</p><p>“Right,” Will says and looks to see who is the closest.  “Lance Corporal Weld? You’re in charge of finishing this inspection.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir.”</p><p>Will grabs his rifle, held by the helpful Private Pickering, and sets off.  5th Platoon has been stationed in the second line and Headquarters is in the rear: it will take only a few minutes to get there, were Will to hurry.  He does not.  </p><p>“Tomorrow’s plans?” Will asks under his breath when they’re well-enough away that none of the soldiers near will notice or care about a Sergeant muttering to himself.</p><p>“The attack is tomorrow,” Tom tells him, easily keeping up.  Tom has taken to being a ghost with all the aplomb he had in life; he no longer overthinks his ghostly existence and trips over invisible obstacles.  Nor does he mind walking through people, walls, or anything else solid. Direct contact with German shells is still a tricky proposition, but Will supposes that’s to be expected.</p><p>“So soon?” Will says.</p><p>“‘This attack will drive the Germans from their positions and allow us to send them whimpering back to Germany with their tails between their legs,’” Tom parrots, taking on the timber of Mackenzie at his most grandiose.  </p><p>Just like every other attack, Will thinks, but shakes it out of his head.  It’s not his place to question that.</p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>Tom is quiet for a moment.  Will risks a look at his friend as they pass through C Company.  Tom is frowning in the way that means he doesn’t quite understand whatever it is he’s thinking about, but suspects it is big given the weight, and isn’t sure he’s supposed to say anything about it given Tom only knows about it because, as a ghost, he eavesdropped to find out in the first place.  </p><p>“What aren’t I supposed to know?” Will clarifies dryly.  </p><p>“How do you even do that?”</p><p>“Experience.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.”  This time, the expression Tom has means he’s trying to find the right words to describe it.  “Well, it was just a sort of comment that one of the officers -- Captain Hallewell? -- made, about the French army.  He complained about us coming to help them out, and them refusing to support in turn.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“Two French divisions who were supposed to relieve two of ours at the front refused to go,” Tom says slowly.  “Now, none of the Sergeants were there for this. And Mackenzie gave him that look. You know, that one that sort of freezes you in place?”</p><p>Will snorts at that.  Yes, Mackenzie was good at freezing the unwary with a glance.  </p><p>“So I’m thinking they want to keep the French mutiny a secret,” Tom concludes.</p><p>“The mutiny again?”</p><p>“Can’t be anything else, the way they were going on about it.”</p><p>Even with Will’s slower pace, they are already at Headquarters.  He nods to the Orderlies and heads inside.</p><p>The room is crowded.  A whole Battalion’s worth of officers means a lot of bodies to squeeze tight around the maps table.  There’s Colonel Mackenzie, of course, and his second, Major Hepburn. The Machine Gun Section is led by Lieutenant Sidney, and his Sergeant appears to be en route.  Four Captains are present -- Captains Hallewell, Sandbach, Dalton, and Manley -- one for each Company. Each Company has four Platoons, all led individually by Lieutenants.  And each Lieutenant has <em> their </em> second, a Sergeant.   (Will marvels, as always, that Mackenzie insists on grandstanding in front of <em>all</em> the officers -- Sergeants included -- when protocol usually demands the Lieutenants brief them.)</p><p>Fortunately, Will is not the last Sergeant to arrive.  He spots Lieutenant Blake standing behind B Company’s Captain Sandbach with other officers from B Company on the far left and makes for him, skirting the crowd that is clustered around the table Colonel Mackenzie is centered behind.        </p><p>“Lieutenant Blake,” he says in greeting.</p><p>“Sergeant Schofield.  You’re just in time,” Joseph replies, nodding.  Lieutenant Richards spots Will and smiles and nods at him.  Will still doesn’t know why 7th Platoon’s commanding officer likes him so much, but it could just be the accent.</p><p>“We are still waiting on some,” Captain Sandbach comments without turning around.  “Good on you, Sergeant.”</p><p>Tom scowls and makes a rude gesture at the Captain’s back.  Will carefully keeps his expression bland.</p><p>“The men?” Joseph wants to know as a few other men come in, each allowing a brief, dim burst of light from the curtained entrance.  The last officer from B Company -- Sergeant Addington, from 8th Platoon -- stalks in. He scowls when he sees Will, but that’s just because Will proved in front of 8th Platoon that Will had the better shot.  They get on well enough otherwise.  </p><p>“Halfway through inspection.  Weld will finish it.”</p><p>“Good,” Joseph says. </p><p>“I believe that is the last of us, Sir,” Major Hepburn says to Colonel Mackenzie in the front.  He raises his voice. “Gentlemen! Your attention please.”</p><p>“We have received our orders, gentlemen,” Mackenzie says without further preamble.  “I will explain this once, but I expect each of you to memorise this map before you leave here.”</p><p>Will doesn’t bother joining in the ragged chorus of “Yes, Sir.”  He just nods when Mackenzie gives the group a once-over.  </p><p>“Our objective is to take Westhoek, here,” Mackenzie says, tapping part of the map.  While he continues to speak, he sketches out troop movements with his pointer. “As part of the 8th Division, we will advance across this part of No Man’s Land when the bombardment begins.”  Will is close enough to see as Mackenzie then taps a small crosshatched square next to a line that means either a railway or a road -- he can’t make out the fine detail at this distance. “We will assemble here and stage our offensive on the German Lines.”  </p><p>Will listens attentively, doing his best to commit it all to memory as the Colonel relates information about zero hour (0350) and the Company to be held in reserve (C Company).  He was never terrible at maps, but, he has discovered, commissioned officers frequently find fault with whatever skills he demonstrates. Will suspects it is probably something to do with how he hasn’t ever had to take a class in Geography, unlike most of the officers present.</p><p>Joseph -- Lieutenant Blake -- most certainly had a class in Geography prior to the war.  He, too, is looking over the map, lips moving a little as he recites the orders under his breath.  From what Will has gathered, both from Tom’s ceaseless commentary and Joseph’s own admission, the brothers had tutoring in the form of a highly respectable governess from a formative age, whose tutelage permitted them entry into equally respectable Public Schools.  It may have cost their parents quite a pretty penny, but -- well. </p><p>“We have been allocated significant artillery support,” Mackenzie continues.  “This will be crucial. The Huns have concentrated most of their defensive artillery in this position -- we will be facing heavy fire.</p><p>“Pill-boxes will be a concern,” Colonel Mackenzie says next.  “As you may have noticed, the German forces are dug into a ridge.  They can’t very well dig down into rock, now can they? Be aware of them and approach them accordingly.”</p><p>Will files this information away and carefully does not show the fear he feels creeping into his gut.  Pill-boxes with machine-guns were some of the worst of a soldier’s nightmares. Will has seen them scythe through entire companies before, cutting every man down before they could even reach the German line.  Until they are taken out, no one is safe.  </p><p>“Lastly,” Mackenzie says, “for consistency and completion’s sake, Captains will each pick a platoon to deal with clearing the dugouts in your specific area.”</p><p>The Captains all nod seriously.  Some Lieutenants, those who do not know any better, stand up straighter and try to look more important.  (Lieutenant Blake is one of them, Will notes, and tries to scrunch down as much as he can to compensate without actually physically moving.)</p><p>“I trust that you all will relay the importance of our success to your men,” Mackenzie finishes curtly.  “Are there any questions?”</p><p>“Are there recommended tactics for dealing with the pill-boxes, Sir?”  Lieutenant Richards asks immediately.  </p><p>“Besides destroying them?  Grenades,” Mackenzie says crisply.  “Speak with the Quartermaster if you need additional supplies.  Our artillery will be focused on the visible pill-boxes, but there will doubtless be some you encounter that we cannot immediately identify from here.”</p><p>“Thank you, Sir.”  </p><p>“Anything else?”</p><p>Will leans in towards Lieutenant Blake a little while one of the Lieutenants from D Company asks something.  “We should talk to the men about tactics when approaching a pill-box,” he murmurs in Joseph’s ear. Blake’s platoon hadn’t had to face them since Will joined the 2nd, but at least a quarter of the men were nearly as new as Will was and it couldn’t hurt.  The Lieutenant nods in agreement.</p><p>When the briefing is over, Will takes the time to study the map more closely, double-checking his initial attempt at memorisation.  The crosshatched square is labeled “Railway Wood” and the line to the north of it is revealed to be, unsurprisingly, a railway. To get there, they will need to cross roughly -- Will re-checks the scale marked on the side of the map -- 350 yards of No Man’s Land.  Various buildings are also marked on the map, including the locations of the known pill-boxes between the wood and Westhoek.  Westhoek is marked as their black-line objective, or the second objective they are expected to take, and it is over 1,500 yards behind the German front line.  Judging from the aerials offered -- well.  They will have to clear three lines of trenches to get there.</p><p>“Looks like a real fight out there,” Tom says to him, quietly.  Will doesn’t dare respond in any noticeable way; he flares out the fingers of his right hand as though starting to count with them and trusts that Tom will understand his acknowledgement.  “Don’t suppose you could delay the attack so’s I could get a good look at the Hun for you, first?”</p><p>Will fists his hand shut as though reconsidering.  He knows anyone watching him will assume he’s ashamed of having to use fingers to count, presuming much about his lack of education.  </p><p>“Damn,” Tom muses.  “I suppose I’ll have to head out before you lot, then.  Zero hour is 0350, right?”</p><p>“Are you ready?” Joseph asks Will, courteously.   </p><p>“Come on, Lieutenant, let him check his maths,” Captain Sandbach says.</p><p>-- of course.  Will congratulates himself on his caution, at least; he is glad to know that his stealth has greatly improved since last August.  “Finished, Sir,” he says over Tom’s creatively rude response. He and Joseph make for the exit with Captain Sandbach following.</p><p>There are many things from conventional society that no longer apply.  Will would say class is one of them, but even halfway through the fourth year of the war -- manpower difficult to acquire at this stage -- he can’t help feeling wrong-footed by the company he is forced to keep.  It is probably because, by now, all of the officers in the 2nd know the circumstances of his promotion and award; some are not as certain as Mackenzie that a glorified message runner deserved such elevation.</p><p>Captain Sandbach is one such man.  This is unfortunate, because he is the officer in charge of B Company, and thus is Will’s superior officer in his direct chain of command.  </p><p>“Right, boys,” the Captain says once they have exited.  Will expects the lack of courtesy, but feels slighted that the Captain disdains Joseph’s rank with the familiar address as well.  “I see you are itching for a fight, Lieutenant Blake; you shall have it. I think 5th Platoon is best suited for clearing those dugouts.”</p><p>Lieutenant Blake practically glows.  “Yes, Sir,” he says, full of awful respect.</p><p>Captain Sandbach sniffs imperiously.  He exchanges salutes with Joseph, ignores Will’s, and leaves down the other side of the line -- probably to the brothel, Will thinks ungraciously.</p><p>“Probably gone to get a tipple and tup,” Tom says sourly.  “Arsehole.”</p><p>“Let’s go see the Quartermaster’s men, shall we?” Joseph says in the manner that indicates he wishes to talk about something.</p><p>Will ducks his head in acknowledgement and flashes Tom a smile in commiseration.  </p><p>“Have you any experience with pill-boxes, then?” Joseph asks as they make their way to the rear.</p><p>“No,” Will answers honestly, then amends it with “Not taking them, at least.”</p><p>“That’s right. You were at Thiepval, correct?”  Joseph grimaces a little at Will’s reaction.  </p><p>Will has learned how to hide the flinch -- but not, he supposes, well enough.  “Yeah, it was at Thiepval,” Will says, keeping it as short as he can. That the machine-guns cut most of his section down before they got to the Bosche’s wire are remembrances he wraps up tightly and stuffs somewhere dark.</p><p>Joseph clears his throat as though saying, <em> moving on. </em>  “Then it’s a good thing we’re talking about tactics with the men.  If the artillery can’t get them, it’s up to us to take them.”  </p><p><em> If guns that can blow a man apart can’t destroy the pill-boxes, what are men supposed to do? </em>  But Will is good at compartmentalizing.  He wraps that thought up and shuts it away, too. </p><p>“How?” he asks instead.</p><p>“When you get close enough, you can shove grenades through the firing slots,” Joseph says.  “That’ll take out the gunner at the least, the men behind him if you’re lucky. It usually disables the gun.”</p><p>Will absorbs this.  “How many grenades do you think we can shake out of the Quartermaster?”</p><p>“I’ve no idea, but I want as many as we can get.”</p><p>“Excellent idea, Sir,” Will says.</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> July 30th [late evening] - July 31st </em>
</p><p>“All right, Scho,” Tom says firmly.  “You’ve checked over the men and your gear twice; your bayonet is as sharp as you can make it.  You need to get some sleep.”</p><p>Will pauses from where he is passing his bayonet over a company-issue whetstone.  The blade gleams brightly along the edges in the light from their billet’s lamp, lethally sharp.  </p><p>“No,” Tom says before Will can get a word in edgewise.  “You don’t need to go over the maps again. Your rifle is fine.”  Will’s shoulders are still set, so Tom continues. “You’ve written your wife a letter and set it to be mailed out tomorrow morning.  But you’ve been up since dawn and you’re going to get up in three hours for an attack and <em> you need sleep.” </em></p><p>Will sighs.  He tucks the whetstone away and slides the bayonet into its sheath.  “I know,” he says, voice soft. They’re not really in danger of being overheard at the moment, what with Will occupying the furthest corner from the rest of the men, but several are sleeping restlessly, anticipating the coming attack.  </p><p>“But chin up,” Tom says cheerfully.  “I’ve got to go now if you want me back by 0230.”</p><p>Reflexively, Will looks at his repaired watch.  Tom looks, too. It’s but a half-hour to midnight.  Will makes a face at him. “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Maybe, but I’m still waiting on some wanker who won’t get to sleep.”  </p><p>Will snorts.  Success! “Fine,” he says.  “I’m turning in now. Get going.”</p><p>Tom makes a shooing motion until Will rolls his eyes and gets up and goes over to his bunk.  Within moments, he is asleep, once again proving Tom’s point that Will would only worry himself to death if Tom weren’t around.</p><p>Satisfied, Tom makes straight for the front line.  For once, being stationed in the second line is a boon; it saves him time.  And he’ll need all the time he can get.</p><p>Tom hasn’t had much opportunity to exercise his usefulness in this regard since Will was transferred -- there was only the once, really, when Will had persuaded Joe to patrol through Écoust as a sort of team-building exercise.  Tom had enjoyed scouting through the town ahead of the section they’d assembled, figuring out where the Bosche were hiding and whispering their locations to Will. Their success at the end of the patrol showed Tom that he could, actually, be of some use, even dead.</p><p>It also reminds Tom now that he can make a difference.  They did find the woman who helped Will when they first went through Écoust, her and her baby, both, and managed to escort them all the way to a group of French refugees heading out of the area.  Tom knows that their fate was weighing heavily on Will in those first few weeks with the 2nd; seeing his friend walk a little lighter through the camp was worth it. </p><p>Tom finds a ladder in the part 5th Platoon will be staging from at the front line and finds he hesitates -- reflex, he supposes.  It takes a moment, but Tom is able to remind himself that not only is he invisible to everyone but Will, he is also invulnerable! (And it’s probably not appropriate but -- thank goodness for already being dead.)  He hops up over the parapet and starts making his way through No Man’s Land.</p><p>Tom is not constrained by physical limits, these days.  So he doesn’t necessarily need to avoid the craters, or the barbed wire, or the bodies -- but he does, anyway, because it gives him a better sense of what 5th Platoon will need to do and what obstacles they’ll face.  He skirts around the first big hole, the one closest to the line. It is easily ten feet across and several feet deep; it doesn’t look like anyone will be able to get out of it easily unless they were already ghostly.  Plus, the bottom has a film of scummy water from the drizzly rain of two days ago. Tom knows Will and Joe were worrying about that -- conditions here were dry all through summer, but the rain from earlier could create enough mud to slow them down when they advanced across No Man’s Land to make it to the wood.  If it slowed them too much, the men wouldn’t be able to cross before the barrage from the artillery ended.</p><p>Behind the crater is their line of barbed wire -- ready to catch any unwary soldiers, tangling in uniform and flesh and trapping men for relentless machine-guns to aim at.  There are some bodies here, left hanging for the crows to pick at; it is almost impossible to tell what uniform they are wearing. Since they are on the other side of the wire, Tom figures they are German.  The corpses are bloated, with the skin sloughing off -- it is easy to see that their failed attack was over a week ago.  </p><p>There are no real breaks in the wire, here, and Tom wonders why this part of the line was chosen for the 2nd.  Surely someone would have taken the lack into account when planning? They’ll need wire cutters to get through this lot -- ah.  There <em> is </em> a bit of a disruption -- a mortar landed nearby the wire and the concussive force did a number on it -- the stuff is snarled through mud, but relatively flattened.  If they dared, the men could walk carefully over it, but crawling is out of the question.  </p><p>He continues forward.  This part of No Man’s Land is on a rise, sloping up to the German lines.  It is not terribly noticeable, but it is a slope nonetheless. Here, there are many more bodies -- unrecoverable for the British beyond the treacherous line of wire, too far from the Germans to make it worth retrieval.  And Tom finds his first ghost.</p><p>It’s a French soldier, looking very, very lost.  He is huddled at the bottom of a crater, rocking in place with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut.  Tom wonders how long he has been out here like this; the British took over this part of the line weeks ago.</p><p>“Hey, mate, you alright?” he asks, making an effort to sound gentle.  He’s found that gentleness tends to get more of a reaction than not, from ghosts.  </p><p>The ghost doesn’t hear him.  Tom gets close enough to hear a quiet, terrified <em> “non non non, pas plus, pas plus si’l te plait” </em> and hurries across the rest of the ground between them.  Tom blesses his parents for their insistence on his learning French as he switches to the same language.   “Mate,” he says, and reaches out to the other ghost to get his attention. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s going to be fine, you’re safe.”</p><p>He pats the Frenchman’s shoulder, not surprised when the soldier startles wildly.  Tom holds his hands up to show he isn’t armed.</p><p>“What are you doing?” the ghost says, frantic.  “Why are you out here? You shouldn’t be here, we’re all dead -- all of us, we’re all dead -- ”</p><p>“Hey, that’s alright, I’m dead too,” Tom tells him cheerfully.  He pulls aside his jacket to show the bloody wound in his belly and smiles encouragingly.  </p><p>The Frenchman -- more like a French boy, he’s horribly young-looking -- gapes like a fish.  </p><p>“What’re you hanging around here for?” Tom asks him, keeping his tone light.  “Hardly a vacation spot, this is.”</p><p>“I -- I got lost,” the boy says.  Seriously, he can’t be older than Tom.  “It was an attack and then -- and then they were all dead, all of the rest of the men, all my friends -- ”  The soldier stops and settles himself, as though all the talking has helped him grasp reality. “I think I ran away from where they were, but the bombardment started again and I panicked.”</p><p>And kept panicking, likely, being set off by each new round.  Tom remembers what that was like.  </p><p>“Well, there isn’t a bombardment now,” Tom says.  “But I’ll tell you what. If you go straight that way, through the wire where it’s been flattened -- ” He points to where he came, the crater near the barbed wire visible from here “ -- see?  Go past that and through to the second line. Look for where the 2nd Devons are posted, if you can. I’ve a friend there who can help you when he wakes up in a few hours.”</p><p>“I -- all right,” says the boy, a little confused.  Tom makes him repeat the instructions twice, until he has it memorised. </p><p>“Oh!” he shouts after, when the boy is already leaving.  “And tell him Tom Blake sent you!” The boy waves, showing he’s heard.  </p><p>Tom turns back to face the German lines and keeps picking his way through.  He runs into one other ghost, a dazed Hun who appears to be trying to put the pieces of his body back together.  Tom always feels a little mixed about helping the Bosche ghosts, but Will never discriminates when it comes to the dead.  So Tom tries to get this one’s attention, too. But, try though he may, the German does not answer or respond in any way, and time is passing.  Tom leaves him to it.</p><p>Just beyond him is the snarl of the Bosche barbed wire.  Tom examines it from a few paces away, looking up and down for a break.  There are some spaces near the bottom that look like they could easily be lifted for a few soldiers to crawl through at a time, though it would, of course, be very slow.  </p><p>As Tom crosses through the wire, it starts to rain.</p><p>Surprised, Tom looks up at the sky.  He hadn’t even noticed the loss of moonlight with the gathering clouds.  The perks of being dead: never needing a light, he supposes.</p><p>The raindrops streak through him uncomfortably.  Will told Tom at some point how disruptive moving water was for ghosts, but that he’d seen older ghosts who weren’t bothered by it.  Tom hasn’t been in rain since -- well, since Écoust, he supposes; every other time, he’s either been safely inside a building or riding something of Will’s.  Right now, it’s not more than uncomfortable, and Tom isn’t a new ghost anymore. He thinks very hard about staying solid and weirdly, it does help. He hopes the French soldier made it to the lines in time.    </p><p>On the other side of the wire, the ground is pocked with craters from the British artillery.  </p><p>Someone swears suddenly, and Tom starts.  Any soldier would recognize that inflection, for all the language is German.  It’s not loud, but it is audible in the quiet, and that means it is close.</p><p>Tom squints.  Even seeing through the dark doesn’t make it easy, but he spots them eventually: in front of the trenches, positioned like a lone outpost, is a machine-gun and its crew.  Once he recognises the outline, it’s like a switch flips in his head, and he sees them all up and down the line. He paces out the distances between them -- they are placed about one hundred yards away from each other, some closer to the lines, others further away.  Tom marks all their positions in his head and moves past them, heading east.</p><p>He is honestly astonished by the distance he covers.  From the first machine-gun emplacement to the Germans’ front line, dug into the ground just in front of the edge of the town’s ruined buildings, it must be two hundred more yards.  It’s one thing to see it on Mackenzie’s maps and aerials, but it’s another to actually traverse it.  </p><p>Up ahead, he sees ghosts.  Not many, but they stand out more clearly to him than anything else.  Tom stops and observes them, thinking hard. Some are curled in the trenches, apparently asleep: doing what they’d be doing if they were still alive.  There are two moving more purposefully, walking through the trench as though they are going somewhere. One ducks into a dugout and disappears as Tom watches.  Whether or not they choose to see him, they do have the ability. And ghosts can physically affect other ghosts, though to what extent was always unclear to him.</p><p>Well.  If he acts as though he’s supposed to be here . . . </p><p>Casually, Tom drops into the trench and makes his way down it for a few moments before he climbs up and out on the other side.  His goal is the low cement rise with horizontal slits just behind the front line: a machine-gun emplacement inside a pill-box. He gets there without incident.</p><p>It’s mostly empty at the moment, but for the machine-gun’s crew.  Steps into the ground lead to barracks -- substantial ones. Each bunk has someone sleeping in it.  Tom creeps out from force of habit and moves on.</p><p>There are no other pill-boxes along this section of the front lines.  The second line yields another two in this section that clearly stand out, behind and to either side of the first one.  The third line has one more that Tom can see. Some, if not all, probably double as barracks; though starting at the second line, Tom also notes that there are large cement constructions that are long, fitted to the shape of the trenches.  When he ducks inside, he finds more sleeping men -- many more.</p><p>Behind the third line are the batteries.  Tom can just barely see the guns but -- </p><p>A sleeping German rolls over; his wristwatch is visible.  It is just past two in the morning.</p><p>It’s time to go.  This is when Will was planning to wake, to start getting the men ready to go over.  Tom has done all the scouting he can for now; he needs to get back to Will and let him know what he’s found.</p><p>Turning, he walks straight into another ghost.  It startles both of them.</p><p>The Bosche squints down at him and says something in German that Tom honestly can’t make out.  </p><p>“Erm.  <em> Tu parlais francais?” </em> Tom tries.</p><p>The German scowls.  He gives Tom a long, assessing look, and then makes shooing motions before hefting his rifle menacingly.</p><p>“Right,” Tom says, taking the warning at face value.  He has absolutely no desire to find out what being shot as a ghost is like.  He salutes, ducks around the ghost, and starts moving very quickly back towards friendlier lines.  Crossing No Man’s Land is much faster the second time around and Tom finds himself skidding into the billet where 5th Platoon are just as Joe starts shaking Will awake.</p><p>“Time to start preparing the men,” Joseph tells Will quietly.  “You take that end and I’ll take this one.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  He squints at his repaired wristwatch. The time is approximately two-thirty in the morning, Tom sees.  “Did you get any sleep at all?”</p><p>Joseph nods.  “I got some. Don’t worry about me.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir.”  Will sits up and looks blankly at the wall for a moment, clearly trying to get his thoughts working.  </p><p>Tom moves close.  “Scho,” he murmurs, not wanting to startle his friend.  Will turns sharply anyway, spots him, and feigns a massive yawn.  “First: you and your men will need wire cutters. I don’t know who still has theirs in their kit, but they’ll be dead useful if you all have a pair.” </p><p>Will rolls his shoulders and gets up, moving to wake Lance Corporal Farley and instructing him to start assembling his section.  Tom follows, knowing he’s being heard as he explains about the situation with the lines of barbed wire.</p><p><em> “Excusez-moi?” </em> someone says timidly.  </p><p>Tom looks around.  It is the French soldier’s ghost from earlier, looking nervous.  </p><p>Tom beams at him.  “You made it!” he congratulates the man, and beckons him to come over to Will (who is now waking Lance Corporal Weld).  “This is Sergeant Schofield. He’ll help put you to rights. Let him finish up what he’s doing and we’ll see if we can get you a moment with him.”</p><p>The dugout is alive with the sounds of men waking and checking their gear.  Two men with a dixie come in. “Breakfast,” one of them announces. They leave the kettle at the tiny table Will was sitting at earlier.  Someone checks the temperature and declares it’s warm enough for consumption; the men start getting out mess tins and lining up.  </p><p>Knowing the men will be distracted enough that Will can risk it, Tom introduces the ghost.  “Found this one in No Man’s Land,” Tom says to Will, gesturing to the French soldier.  </p><p>“You can help?”  the boy asks.</p><p>“Yes,” Will tells him quietly.  Tom sees him twitch his fingers just a little, and the French ghost thins and swirls into Will’s top button.  He’ll be safe there until the next time Will can get to a graveyard.</p><p>“Poor lad,” Tom says.  “Found him rocking in a crater.  He kept getting set off by the bombardments.”</p><p>Will nods minutely.  “Anything else?”</p><p>Tom shakes his focus back to what he’s supposed to be doing: giving Will the information he needs to make sure the platoon gets through this all right.  He starts up again, quietly relaying the locations of the trickiest craters and the placements of the machine-guns just after the German wire.</p><p>“Sergeant, come get something to eat,” Joseph orders from the other side of the room.  The other men have all already got theirs.  </p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says, and goes to the dixie for his serving.  Mess tin full, he makes for Lance Corporal Weld. Weld is an easy-going man of thirty and is the Corporal who tests Will’s authority the least.  He’s also, Tom remembers, the one who insisted Will take the helmet that first day Will was with his brother’s men, before the transfer to the 2nd. </p><p>“Corporal, I can’t recall that anyone has been sent on a wiring party since we arrived,” Will says to the man.  “Does anyone know what the state of the enemy’s wire is?”</p><p>Lance Corporal Weld looks at him with surprise.  “Er,” he says around a mouthful of food and swallows hastily.  “No Sir, not that I can recall.”</p><p>“No, Sir,” Private Brandt says from where he’s sitting next to Weld.  He’s the platoon’s only German speaker and occasionally gets harassed about it -- that’s probably why he’s sitting next to Weld, Tom thinks.  “Most of us have been mucking around or were on labour detail since we got here, and no one wants to volunteer for a night patrol.”</p><p>Weld looks thoughtful.  “We should make sure the men have their wire cutters handy,” he tells Brandt. “I know the newer lads will have them, but I’ve been here for over a year and I <em> know </em> I’m missing bits of my kit.”</p><p>Will nods to him.  “Excellent idea, Lance Corporal.  Can you let Farley know to do the same?  I’ll check with Linden and Oakes.”</p><p>Tom watches this whole exchange with great amusement.  He doesn’t think even his mother could have done such manipulation better.</p><p>Within short order, the platoon has been fed and outfitted.  Upon the exhortations of Lance Corporal Weld and Private Brandt, nearly everyone has found themselves a pair of wire-cutters, or paired themselves with someone who is actually in possession of some.  The lot of them assemble and make for the front line.  </p><p>At precisely 0350, their bombardment begins.  They and the rest of the 8th Division have six full minutes to get to the other side of No Man’s Land, during which their artillery will shoot hundreds of shells at the German lines to keep the Bosche preoccupied.  Some good news, at least -- the rain has stopped, though who knows how long that will last.</p><p>Tom follows the platoon as they navigate the landscape he has crossed twice already.  He and Will have already agreed that as soon as the first German shell lands, he will scoop Tom straight into the tin.  They cannot risk Will being distracted in the middle of an engagement. But in the meantime, Tom can easily whisper instructions to Will as they cross the muddy, cratered ground between them and the German line.  He helps them around the largest obstacles and keeps them heading in the right direction, at least, and the whole platoon is able to assemble in what is left of Railway Wood easily within the time allotted.</p><p>After those first six minutes were up, Tom knew, the artillery had been ordered to gradually increase their range by 100 yards for another four minutes.  This was to ensure the enemy was thoroughly worked over -- and also, hopefully, to avoid hitting their own men as they took the German trenches.</p><p>On Joe’s signal, Tom and the men of 5th Platoon advance towards the trenches along with the rest of B Company.  The battle officially begins!</p><p>The Germans are not expecting the attack.  Tom gets caught up in the thrill of it, watching them shout and fight or shout and retreat.  He whoops along with Private Martin when Lieutenant Richards captures an enemy machine-gun and turns it on a cluster of Germans massing near their flank.</p><p>Many of the men went about their business more stoically.  Their platoon was one of the first to breach the German trench.  Sliding in without hesitation was Will and several of Weld’s section.  They went about their work with grim efficiency, establishing and maintaining a foothold in the German front line that the other sections were able to take advantage of.  </p><p>Watching his friend, Tom feels a little of his good mood drain away.  Will is a soldier and he is good at what he does. Watching him bayonet a man who was knocked to the ground before taking aim at one of the fleeing Bosche, Tom thinks that were it any other person, he would have kept cheering at the competence demonstrated.  But Will is also winding these men’s spirits into the wool of his uniform. His actions are not things he will ever forget, not when he literally carries the ghosts of the men he’s slaughtered with him.</p><p>As the platoon moves forward, they come across their first pill-box.  The Bosche have started to rally; Tom hears the thunderous chatter of the machine-gun situated at its top begin its deadly work.  He, Will, and the men with them immediately duck into cover. The youthful Private Jensen does not get out of the way in time; Tom sees Will snatch his ghost up in a hurry.  </p><p>Then, there is an explosive bang in front of them, and the chatter stops.  When Tom peeks up around the top, he sees Joe, Lance Corporal Farley, and two other men have dropped a grenade on the gun and are cutting down the men who were manning it ruthlessly.  He cheers at the sight.</p><p>And this is how things continue as the sun lightens the sky and rises above the German lines.  5th Platoon and the rest of B Company make short work of getting through to their first objective, reaching there by mid-morning, where Joe calls for a halt to pause and eat whatever is on hand. </p><p>Will spends the time going between the men, finding out who was killed or left wounded for the stretcher-bearers to retrieve.  The worst of it was a shell that landed in the middle of Weld’s section; Weld was certainly dead, as were two others. Three more men were also seen to have been caught in the blast, but no one present had verified whether they were dead or wounded before they were left behind.  </p><p>Tom sees the lines deepen in Will’s face, reckoning up the total dead.  “Would you like me to go look for them?” Tom asks. The uncertainty is what will drive Will mad, he thinks.</p><p>Will waits until the others are preoccupied before shaking his head.  “No,” he tells Tom. “If we’re going to do that, it’s best to wait until the fighting is all over.”</p><p>Joe orders them to continue pushing forward at noon.  They continue to sweep for dugouts, waiting on runners from other platoons to direct them to where they are found.  Tom finds that the time drags more than he would have thought possible. The men are getting tired, too; everyone goes about the job with businesslike effort.</p><p>Around two in the afternoon, the heavens open up and the rain starts again.  It is a right deluge. Tom grumbles a little; the added distraction of staying solid is annoying, initially.  After a small period of adjustment, he is able to compensate for it without having to think too much. -- But it is the thing that finally sours Tom’s mood towards the battle.  He is ready to stop, now.  But the day is not over: 5th Platoon has not yet taken their second objective. </p><p>It is shortly afterwards that they run into the largest pill-box they’ve seen thus far.  This one hasn’t any machine-gun attached, but it is filled with Bosche who haven’t decided to give up quite yet.  The fighting is fierce and two of theirs are lost to enemy fire. The conflict comes to an abrupt end when Lance Corporal Oakes tosses two grenades into the cement building and they explode with an echoing bang. </p><p>Shouts of surrender come after the initial screams.  In ones and twos, the six or seven of the Bosche remaining leave the pill-box with their hands raised and immediately kneel for the soldiers at the front.  The men nearby stay wary -- you never know with the Hun! -- but after several moments of the Bosche just kneeling quietly with their hands in the air, Oakes’s section relaxes considerably.  </p><p>Something in the prisoners’ demeanor seems to catch Tom’s attention.  “Will,” he says, reaching out for him instinctively. He can’t understand why; Tom only knows that something incredibly important is about to happen.  Will is several yards behind, and doesn’t seem to hear.</p><p>Joe comes up to the section in front of the pill-box.  His expression brightens. Tom, in a detached way, can understand this -- no one likes to kill men if they don’t have to.  But there is something not right about it.  </p><p>“Will!” Tom screams, fighting the feel of blood pumping out across his skin and creeping, numbing cold.  </p><p>Will turns sharply in his direction, but it isn’t fast enough.  One of the surrendering men sees that Joe is an officer and does the unthinkable: he pulls out a pistol and shoots Joe at point-blank range.  Tom’s brother staggers and falls.</p><p>Tom raises his rifle and shoots, again and again and again, advancing like he watched Will do in Écoust.  The Hun immediately drops his pistol and holds up his hands, surrendering again. On Tom’s third shot, the German jerks back, a neat hole through his eye.  Tom sobs and stops, swiveling his rifle to point at the rest of them.</p><p>“Hold!” Will shouts.  </p><p>The other German soldiers do their best to sink into the ground and look non-threatening, a babble of pleas rising from them as Tom hears the sounds of guns being readied and aimed.  Tom would have gladly killed them all in that instant, watching his brother bleed on the ground. But he holds.  </p><p>“Pickering.”  Will’s voice is ghastly, devoid of any emotion.  “Get to Lieutenant Blake and put pressure on the wound.”</p><p>Pickering stumbles forward, yanking out a field dressing as he goes.  He rolls Tom’s brother over and knocks Joe’s hands away from where they are trying to press up against the hole in his thigh, replacing them with rolled-up bandages and hands whose joints turn white with the force.  Tom flinches sharply as Joe shouts at the pain.</p><p>“Private Brandt, translate for me please,” Will continues.  He stalks forward to put himself between Joe and the Germans, his gun leveled at the remainder of the Bosche along with those of every other member of 5th Platoon.  Tom is the only one who sees the condensing spirit of the dead man wisp and thread itself through the laces of Will’s right shoe as Brandt stumbles up to the front to stand just behind Will.  </p><p>“If any of you shoot another of my men, I will kill <em> all </em> of you,” Will says flatly.  Brandt, stuttering a little, lets out a stream of German.  “Moreover, if one of you shoots me, I order my men to kill <em> all of you. </em>   Forfeit your weapons, <em> now.” </em></p><p>Several of the Germans relinquish their weapons immediately, before Brandt finishes translating.  Others let theirs go with more reluctance. Several of the Privates scurry forward, unordered, and start collecting the weaponry.  Joe is panting on the floor, agonized; his hands are on Pickering’s.  </p><p>Will is still talking.  “Linden, take your section and clear the pill-box.  Oakes, see if you can spot our stretcher-bearers and get them up here if you can.  Farley, your men are to get this lot positioned against the wall of the pill-box and guard them.”</p><p>Linden and his men quickly enter the pill-box and make sure there are no other enemy combatants.  Meanwhile, Farley and his lads start herding the Bosche up against the wall of the pill-box. Tom doesn’t see if Oakes responds or not; he has shaken free of his paralysis at last and is by his brother’s side, looking down at him.  “No, Joe,” he whispers. “No. Not you too, no. Mum will kill us!”</p><p>Then Will is there, sliding into the space next to Tom and leaning into Joe’s view, putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Show me,” he tells Pickering.  </p><p>Pickering lifts his hands, but only briefly.  It is enough to see the wound is a neat hole, currently staining Joe’s trousers with blood -- a lot of blood.  Tom feels like he could cry as Will lets out a breath and presses Pickering’s hands back down on the dressing, firmly.</p><p>“You’re going to be alright, Joseph,” he tells them both, quietly.  There is no mistaking the note of relief in Will’s voice.  </p><p>“But there’s so much blood,” Tom whispers, wringing his hands.  He remembers the blood, pumping and pumping and pumping out. It seemed like so little, at first.</p><p>Joseph’s breath is short and sharp, but he flashes a weak grin at Will.  “Not going to bleed out, am I?” he says, tone strained.  </p><p>“You’d’ve lost a <em> lot </em> more blood by now if that was the case,” Will says with feeling.  “Now come on, Pickering, help me wrap it up.”</p><p>The two of them painstakingly wad two more field dressings on the wound and wrap them in place tightly with a third and fourth.  The bleeding has slowed enough that the bandages aren’t immediately stained through.</p><p>Meanwhile, Oakes returns. “Sir,” Oakes says, coming over to them as they finish wrapping the fourth roll of bandage tight.  “The stretcher-bearers are carrying someone else right now, but they will come back for Lieutenant Blake when they are done.  They say it’ll be a while, Sir. The conditions on the battlefield are getting worse.”  </p><p>Tom looks up at the sky with Pickering, who wilts.  The rain has slowed somewhat, but it is still the kind with fat, heavy drops that soak into the already-soft ground.    </p><p>“Sir,” someone says raggedly behind them.  Will and Tom both look.</p><p>It is Lance Corporal Weld -- his ghost, anyway.  He is hunched a little over the guts heaped in his arms and leads three other ghosts -- the missing members of his section.  The lot of them are flickering, fighting to keep themselves intact as the rain pours down.</p><p>“Let’s get Lieutenant Blake inside and out of this rain,” Will tells Pickering.  He slings Joe’s dropped rifle over his shoulder and prepares to move Tom’s brother.    </p><p>Tom gets up.  “Come on, lads,” he tells the ghosts, beckoning them forward.  He leads them quickly into the interior of the pill-box, pulling himself together as he goes so that he can inject some cheer into the rest of it.  “Good on you lot for catching up with us!”</p><p>“Couldn’t not,” Weld says, weary.  “Had a feeling we were supposed to follow.”</p><p>“The rain made it harder,” says Private Northcott, hollowly.  His whole left leg is gone and he is propped up between Privates Chester and Brandon.</p><p>“Well, you’re out of the rain now,” Tom reassures them.  “And if you give Will a minute, he’ll help you out.”</p><p>“Will?” Brandon asks.  He and Chester maneuver themselves so that they can lower Northcott to sit on the floor, before joining him themselves.</p><p>Tom nods to Will, who, with Pickering and Oakes’s help, is carefully half-carrying, half-dragging Joe under the cover of the pill-box.  “Will. Sergeant Schofield.”</p><p>Weld stays standing.  He is looking at Tom intently.  “You’re the Lieutenant’s brother, aren’t you?”</p><p>Tom looks back at Joseph and feels the forced cheer drain all out of him.  Joe is grimacing through the whole process of being moved, pale in the darkness of the pill-box as Pickering and Oakes and Will prop him up to sit against a wall.  “Yeah,” Tom says. “I stuck around to look after them.”</p><p>“But you said the Sergeant would help us,” Brandon points out.  </p><p>“Yeah,” Tom says again, annoyed now.  “Give him a minute to sort my brother out, all right?” </p><p>“You need to keep advancing,” Joe is saying to Will, who has remained kneeling at his side.  “You’ve got me wrapped up and ready for the stretcher -- I’ll keep. But we must continue to press forward.”</p><p>Will closes his eyes at the order and breathes in, rocking back a little.  He does not look happy in the slightest.</p><p>“No,” Tom blurts out.  He comes across the room to kneel next to Joe as well -- on the other side of him, so Will can look at him easily.  “No, we can’t leave him. I can’t leave him like this!”</p><p>Joe puts a hand on Will’s arm.  “It is your duty,” he says quietly, probably seeing how little Will wants to do it.  Tom feels horribly torn. He doesn’t want to leave Will -- but he <em> can’t </em> leave his brother -- </p><p>“Fine,” Will says after a moment, looking away from them both.  Tom bites back a shout. “But I’m leaving Farley and his section with you.  They’ve only lost one man so far -- we’ve got to leave someone to guard the prisoners, anyway,” he adds, raising a hand and forestalling Joe’s objections.  </p><p>“Leave me, too,” Tom asks quickly, heart in his throat.  Will’s jaw works a little. “I don’t want -- well, I’m not much use to you anyway, not at the moment.  I’ve already told you everything I know. And he’s -- he’s my brother. Will, I can’t.”</p><p>Joe knocks his head against the wall and sighs over Tom’s last few words.  “Alright. You’re in command, Sergeant Schofield.” </p><p>Will nods -- to both of them.    </p><p>Tom wishes they had the luxury of a minute where he and Will could talk.  Plan things out. But they don’t. He watches as Will traces his fingers over the Sergeant’s chevrons of his left arm, pressing Chester, Northcott, and Brandon into its angles; Weld sighs as he sinks into the regimental patch just above them.  Will smoothly uses the gesture to unsling Joe’s rifle from his shoulder. He gives it to Joe.  </p><p>“Just in case,” Will says, grimly.  Joe nods back, mouth thinning.</p><p>Will gets up and turns to the others.  “Right,” he says, checking his rifle and reloading his clip.  “Oakes, take what’s left of Weld’s section and split it between you and Linden.  We’re going to keep up our advance. Farley?”</p><p>Farley appears in the doorway.  “Yes, Sir?”</p><p>“You and your men are in charge of holding these prisoners here until the rest of the army shows up.  My order from outside still stands.” Will’s tone turns cold. “If even a single one of them steps out of line, shoot them.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir.”</p><p>“Good luck, Will,” Joe says quietly from the wall.  </p><p>“Don’t die,” Tom adds, feeling miserable about the whole thing already.</p><p>Will nods and leaves the pill-box.  Tom can feel him go, his presence somehow weighing on Tom’s perceptions: first, pausing outside to get the men into order, before heading off, creeping east.  Waiting is always hard; it’s even worse now that Tom is a ghost, for he has nothing to do but sit and stew about his decisions. What if Will is hurt, badly? What if he dies because Tom isn’t there to warn him?  Logically, Tom knows that Will is perfectly capable of taking care of himself -- Tom hasn't even been any real use during the fighting. But still! --and this is getting him nowhere. Tom forces himself to stop and check in with his surroundings instead, to keep from falling into the kind of anxiety that can cause him to lose track of time or fall back into one of those fits.  </p><p>The distant sounds of artillery are nearly drowned out by the nearer sound of the heavy rain falling, now.  Outside, the men talk quietly, subdued. Lance Corporal Farley comes in and insists on covering Blake with a blanket, donated by one of the men.</p><p>It can’t be more than fifteen minutes before the stretcher bearers -- all four of them, splattered in mud from the waist down -- arrive, but it feels like hours.  Tom springs up, both to give them space and to let off some of the manic energy he is feeling. “Careful with him,” he warns them. “That’s my brother; you handle him gentle or I’ll walk all through you.”</p><p>“Come on, Sir,” one of them says to Joe, and then two of them work quickly and efficiently to move Joe to the stretcher.  It’s one of the ones made with flaps that will wrap around the person on it, and it is streaked with fresh blood and mud. “We’ll make it as smooth as possible, but it’s awful going and only getting worse.”</p><p>“Conditions are that bad?” Joe asks.</p><p>“Yes,” says the man, and refuses to say anything further on the matter.</p><p>Tom trails them as they make for the Aid Post that is closest, still unfortunately all the way across No Man’s Land in the old British lines.  The rain is lightening up, just a little, but he can already see the mess it has made of the battlefield.</p><p>The ground is a swamp.  As the stretcher-bearers get closer, they begin to sink with each step: first a few inches, then up to their ankles, their knees.  Their speed slows to a crawl as each man must carefully extricate himself from the mire before taking the next one. And all throughout, they work to keep from jostling the stretcher, struggling to keep the whole thing as level as possible.  </p><p>Joe lapses into unconsciousness after a while.  The bandages, soaked by the falling rain, start to look a watery pink.  He hasn’t bled through them yet, but it won’t be long, Tom thinks, and feels ill.  They have only just reached what is left of the German lines.  </p><p>Along the way, there are some ghosts -- faint, flickering, and fighting the effects of the rain.  Tom directs several to go on ahead, eastward, to find Will. After the third, Tom reconsiders -- Will probably doesn’t need a load of dead soldiers showing up and demanding his attention while he’s trying to lead what is left of the platoon.  Tom starts sending them back to the old British lines instead, warning them to find shelter from the rain if it gets worse. Even if Will and the men don’t wind up being sent back that way, Tom knows there is a churchyard that they will eventually gravitate towards.  Several ghosts choose just to follow him.</p><p>Eventually, the rain trickles away to almost nothing.  They are halfway through No Man’s Land now. Looking up, Tom can see that more threatens to come in the dark clouds still blanketing the sky.  About the same time, Tom hears the oddest thing: a soft choking gasp somewhere nearby, followed by weak splashing.  Curious, he follows it.  He can’t quite place the noise, though he feels like it should be familiar --</p><p>-- it is a crater, at least six feet deep and half-filled in water.  Three bodies float silently on the surface. A fourth is pressed into the mud near the edge, face up.</p><p>Except, Tom realises with horror, the fourth one isn’t a body -- he can see it is still moving.  The weak movements the man makes is what caused the splashing sounds. He is trapped in the mud, fighting to keep his head above the rainwater that has filled the crater higher than his mouth and nose.  Tom watches as the man manages to get his face above it briefly and wheeze before sinking back down. Of course -- the wounded who wait on the field for stretchers frequently roll into the craters for extra cover.  But with the 70 or so pounds of equipment weighing them down . . . and with all this rain . . .</p><p>“Wait,” Tom says.  “Wait!” </p><p>He turns to the stretcher-bearers, struggling to carry his brother across No Man’s Land.  “Wait!” he shouts at them. “There’s a man over here! He’s drowning!”</p><p>They don’t hear him.  </p><p>Tom feels a sort of feverish energy surge through him.  He runs for the crater and slides into it next to the soldier.  “Come on,” he says to the man, “come on, you can do it. Just push a little harder --”</p><p>Water closes over the man’s nose and mouth --</p><p>-- <em> Tom screams for Scho to wake up -- </em></p><p>-- Tom throws himself out of the crater, gasping.  He can’t do it, he can’t, not unless he wants to get stuck in a loop; and the man will drown if he gets stuck in a loop.  Tom must get to the stretcher-bearers and <em> make them help. </em></p><p>“Oi!” he shouts, running for them.  “There’s a man! A man is drowning, you’ve got to help him -- stop, please!  Just for a minute --”</p><p>They still aren’t hearing him; they don’t stop.  Tom quickly weighs his options. They can’t hear him, they can’t see him . . . but they can feel him, sometimes?  That’s got to help, somehow. Deliberately, Tom walks through the last two, trying to avoid his brother as much as possible.</p><p>One of them curses and stumbles, hard.  He knocks up against the other, who didn’t react in the slightest, and the stretcher is jostled horribly.  Joe jerks awake with a pained cry.</p><p>“Sorry!” Tom blurts to his brother, unheard though it may be.  “Sorry, sorry . . .”</p><p>“Careful!” warns one of the men in the front.  He doesn’t sound angry; he just sounds stressed.  “Sorry, Sir, we’ll have you there in another few moments.”</p><p>“That’s alright,” Joe says, wheezing a little.  “It’s fine, I’m fine. Carry on.”</p><p>The stretcher-bearers resume their course, much to Tom’s frustration.  He shoots a look at the man in the crater; the man is still moving weakly.  He hasn’t got long, Tom must do <em> something -- </em></p><p>Thunder cracks overhead.  Tom startles so badly he loses himself and the moment.  </p><p>When he is aware of himself once more, he feels the rain has started again before he is able to see that it is now a drowning torrent.  His brother’s stretcher is yards away. The ghosts who were following him have disappeared. Tom looks to the crater, where he sees that the man has stopped struggling.  The water is now so high that only his forehead shows he is there at all.  </p><p>And any ghost left, new as it would be, could not possibly form in this downpour.</p><p>Tom finds himself bent over, retching up an empty stomach.  There isn’t any reason for it, he can’t possibly bring anything up, but the thought of being trapped so helplessly, after you’ve done everything to survive -- and Tom tried to help him, he did, he tried to help and he <em> failed -- </em> </p><p>Tom heaves again.  Dimly, between gasps, he realises he can’t stay here.  The man is dead, and Tom must go now or he will be trapped.  He can already feel the strain of keeping himself together in the rain for so long and he hasn’t the fortitude to will himself more solid, to will himself to resist getting stuck here.  He stumbles after his brother.  </p><p>Tom cannot help feeling ashamed that he could do nothing to help the drowning man, who might not have died at all but for sucking mud and murderous rain.  He is horrified that he lost himself so badly with the thunder, when he has gotten so practiced at not being thrown off by environmental shocks. Most of all, Tom thinks bitterly of how much he wishes he was being carried by Will right now, and how much Tom regrets his choice to follow his brother -- though it is his duty.  All of these feelings increase as Tom becomes aware of other splashing and gasping nearby. He regrets that he chose this. He could not possibly have foreseen this outcome and it is so, so awful.</p><p>The remainder of the trip is a nightmare.  Tom finds himself at one point barely putting one foot in front of the other, as slow as any of the stretcher-bearers.  He cannot find it in himself to shake the terrible drag on his spirit, and it pervades everything, washing the world in bleak greys and blacks and whites all the way until he finds himself wavering outside of the Aid Post.  The men here are assessing Joseph’s condition. Already the stretcher-bearers have headed back out into the murk.</p><p>“What on earth are you doing, soldier?” he hears.  Tom startles a little -- everything looks normal and . . . no one else is reacting?  He turns and stops abruptly -- Captain Sandbach is examining Tom disapprovingly, clearly noting every speck of trench muck and every crumb Tom hasn’t bothered to brush from his uniform.  </p><p>The Captain is very dead.</p><p>“Hm,” Sandbach says, clearly finding Tom wanting.  “So you are the one I’m supposed to be looking for.  I heard there was someone who could point me in the right direction.  Name?”  </p><p>“Oh,” Tom says blankly, and then “Oh!  Er, sorry, Sir?” He salutes for good measure. </p><p>“Name, Lance Corporal,” snaps Sandbach.</p><p>“Lance Corporal Blake, Sir,” Tom says, feeling very out of sorts.</p><p>“Related to Lieutenant Blake, I presume?” Sandbach says, lip curling.  </p><p>“Yes, Sir.”  Tom is starting to get his bearings.  Funny, that is, that army formality would bring him back to himself.  He is also starting to remember just how much of an arsehole this particular officer is.</p><p>Sandbach nods politely.  “A good man,” he says, tone indicating that he is saying it only for pleasantry’s sake.  “Now tell me -- what am I to do next?”</p><p>“Right, well,” Tom says, suddenly feeling on firmer ground.  It’s a familiar question. “You can wait here for Will -- that is, Sergeant Schofield, Sir -- when he returns.”</p><p>Captain Sandbach stiffens, recoiling a little from Tom.  “Schofield? Why on earth would I find that -- ” The Captain interrupts himself and gives Tom a second look.  Tom sees as recognition finally dawns on the man.</p><p>Tom can feel his own face settling into the polite, neutral expression they are all trained to adopt in Basic.  Will doesn’t discriminate; he would accept Sandbach’s ghost regardless of whatever vitriol the man spewed. Tom can make an effort to not be actively confrontational.</p><p>“Sergeant Schofield carries ghosts,” he explains, dropping the formal address anyway.  Passively confrontational is just fine. “He takes them to the Grim, when he can. You can wait for him here or make your way to him.”</p><p>Sandbach just looks at him.  “Is there another option?”</p><p>Tom feels his temper rising and tamps it down.  “Well, yes. But you’ll want to wait -- ”</p><p>“I think I know what I want better than you do, boy,” Sandbach interrupts him.  </p><p>Tom snaps his mouth shut and salutes.  He makes it a nice two-fingered one. “Up yours, Sandbach,” he says.  When he lowers his hands again, he finds he is holding his rifle. His fingers curl around it.</p><p>“I beg your pardon!”</p><p>“Good,” Tom says.  He doesn’t recognise his own voice with how cold and hard his tone is.   “It’s well overdue. I suggest you be on your way.”</p><p>“But -- ”  Sandbach stops, looking a little pale.  He must see something of Tom’s anger, because he turns around and walks out into the rain instead of continuing to push it.  Tom hopes the rain shreds his spirit to bits and fiercely watches him leave until the ghost is long out of sight.  </p><p>The fire of his fury burns itself out and things start to blur.  </p><p>Tom loses track of time.  He finds himself sitting next to Joe as the men working the Aid Post decide to send him straight to the Casualty Clearing Station.  Tom isn’t sure where the group of ghosts who were following him has gone. He isn’t sure of a whole lot, generally; he finds himself catching on vague, half-formed thoughts, startling whenever the wounded around them gasp in pain or choke on blood.  He is starting to think there is something wrong with him. Joe wakes up and chats with some of the other men classified as lightly-wounded, needs-evacuation, all of whom have been lined up in the back, waiting for available stretcher-bearers. Tom listens in for a while, but he cannot seem to parse the chatter.  Everything feels off.</p><p>Evening comes.  As the meagre sun dims, so does the rain.  By the time night falls, the clouds thin enough to let watery moonlight -- that of a nearly-full moon -- illuminate the wreckage of the land.</p><p>Tom stirs.  </p><p>He doesn’t feel he is himself at all as he wafts over the battleground.  If there are ghosts, he doesn’t recognise them. The bodies are immaterial; the landscape is nothing short of hell.  He doesn’t want to see it, any of it. He blocks it all out.</p><p>To the East is William Schofield.  He pulls at Tom like a lodestone.  </p><p>Tom stretches and reaches and finds himself thinning like a worn-away tire.  He wants to rest, so badly. He is barely cognisant as he reaches one last time and brushes the tin -- </p><p>-- and sinks into it and into the warmth of Will’s love --</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> August 1st </em>
</p><p>-- and wakes, much later.</p><p>Will reaches out before Tom is even aware of where he is.  “Are you alright?” Will asks, hands hovering around Tom’s shoulders.  There is an undercurrent of fear to it that Tom would not be adept in reading had he not spent the last thousand years living in Will’s shadow.</p><p>Will bears the marks of a hard fight, recently won.  His helmet has a dent in it, and there is a bloody bandage wrapped around his upper arm, but he is alert and clear-eyed as he looks Tom over.  </p><p>They are alone, hidden from observers in the lee of a brick building.  They are under the eaves, and Tom is protected from the rain -- the rain that is falling again.  From the light, it must be the day, though it is impossible to tell whether it is morning, noon, or evening.</p><p>Tom swats at Will’s hands, shaking him off.  “I’m fine,” he says, feeling crotchety and not at all awake.  “So’s Joe. We’re both fine.”</p><p>Will does that thing, that really annoying thing where he looks Tom straight in the eyes even though Tom is looking at the ground.  “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes,” Tom snaps, not really registering the worry in Will’s voice.  He feels like he could sleep another thousand years and <em> still </em> not be ready for this; he doesn’t want to talk about it, about <em> any </em> of it.  “Joe is <em> fine. </em>  They evacuated him and he’s off to a proper hospital.”</p><p>Will searches his eyes.  Concern crinkles in his brow and at his temples.  “All right,” he says abruptly. “All right.”</p><p>Tom sighs, feeling the sudden lack of imperative as Will lets him go as a distinct shock, a loss of support.  He knows he is dead but Tom leans towards his friend, anyway. It’d be nice to rest against a friendly shoulder.  </p><p>“Can I go back to sleep?” he asks.  He is so tired.</p><p>“Yes, Tom,” Will says gently.  And Tom rolls back into the darkness.</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>
  <em> August 2nd </em>
</p><p>Will looks over his men.  The remnants of 5th Platoon are clustered within a cleared cement pill-box, huddling together around the little primus stove.  Private Kimberley has a dab hand at making the biscuit they received in rations edible; he has collected rations from the men remaining after the initial assault two days ago and yesterday’s counter-attack and is boiling it all in someone’s helmet with some of the sultanas Brandt’s mother included in his last package.  </p><p>With Lance Corporal Farley’s section still behind them somewhere, Will had 24 men remaining out of Linden’s, Oakes’s, and Weld’s sections who could still hold a gun.  Two others -- Private Martin and Private Hale -- were stretched out in the corner, awaiting evacuation from the overworked stretcher-bearers. Hale had gone feverish an hour ago.  They hadn’t seen stretcher-bearers since noon.  </p><p>Will counts silently, mentally comparing the list of missing men with the list of ghosts he’s got tucked in his tunic and buttons and pack.  He’s caught everyone’s ghost from the last day or so, and if Weld’s example was anything to go by, all the men who were lost in No Man’s Land have made their way to him.  But he is still at least two ghosts short. He hopes the men are just casualties and were pulled off the field.</p><p>“D’you want some, Sarge?”  Kimberley’s offer pulls Will out of his thoughts.  He looks over; the Private is courteously offering him the first helping.  It’s a nice gesture.</p><p>“Serve it out to everyone else, first,” he says.  “I’ll take whatever’s left.”  </p><p>Will checks his watch.  It’s late, nearly 9 in the evening, and the rain still hasn’t stopped.  Tom has been sleeping for more than a full day since Will pulled him out yesterday.  </p><p>Will feels his skin creep at the memory.  He has never seen a ghost in such sorry shape.  Tom’s presence was worn so thin he had become little more than a shadow when he crept up to their position two nights ago.  He hadn’t responded to anything Will had said; he just hovered vacantly over Will’s shoulder with a terrifying emptiness to him.  Will wound up coaxing Tom into his tobacco tin, hopefully to be able to rest and recover, trying his best not to fear the worst through long, long hours of waiting.</p><p>Pulling him out yesterday when Will had managed to get a moment to himself had alleviated a lot of those fears, though.  Tom was definitely more solid after sixteen hours, and offered some answers; whatever had happened didn’t have anything to do with his brother.  So Will was waiting for him to come out on his own.</p><p>But what on earth could have <em> happened </em> to wear Tom out so?  Was it just from all the rain?  No, Tom wasn’t a new ghost anymore.  He had practice getting through that sort of thing, now.  But following his brother across No Man’s Land shouldn’t have been so strenuous -- unless maybe, he had run into some ghosts who caused trouble . . . Will has seen Tom grapple with ghosts before and knows that it is possible.  </p><p>Will accepts a portion of the boiled biscuit when Kimberley hands it to him with a soft “Thanks” and eats it quietly.  He is next on watch and relieves Pickering outside.     </p><p>“What’d I miss?” Tom asks him, not ten minutes later.</p><p>Will looks around him, startled; there is Tom, solid once more, leaning on the wall beside him.  He has an unusually glum look on his face.</p><p>“Welcome back,” Will tells him, keeping his voice low.  The men inside won’t be able to hear him if he isn’t too loud.  “You missed a bit of a scrap, but we pulled through.”</p><p>Tom nods, sombre, but doesn’t say anything.  Will waits for a long moment.</p><p>“Is your brother all right?” he asks, eventually.</p><p>“Yeah,” Tom says.  “Yeah, they sent him on to be evacuated.  He’s probably going home on that delayed leave to recover.”</p><p>Will lets out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.  Good news, then. Lieutenant Blake was a good officer; Will would hate to have to work with a new one.</p><p>“Any other news from the rear?” he asks.</p><p>“Sandbach is dead,” Tom says.  His expression is sour. He offers no other information. </p><p>Will takes a long moment to think about that.  He finds he really doesn’t have much to say. Sandbach had been a bastard, but he had not been incompetent, per se.  Will wonders who will replace him, and how they will run things.</p><p>“Was he hard to manage?” Will settles on asking.</p><p>A flicker of a smile ghosts across Tom’s face.  “No,” he says. “I just told him to get arsed.”</p><p>Will chokes.  “You didn’t,” he says.</p><p>Tom is definitely smiling now.  “Did too,” he says, voice gaining some of its usual liveliness.  “Thought it was appropriate, given how he’d treated you. He didn’t take it well, so I sent him on his way.”</p><p>Will smiles briefly.  He can just imagine it, too; Tom was always good at saying the things Will doesn’t feel comfortable voicing.</p><p>“Aren’t you lot supposed to advance tomorrow?” Tom asks suddenly.</p><p>Will shakes his head.  “The advance was supposed to be today.  But the support couldn’t get through the mud; we’re waiting on them to tell us when to go on.”</p><p>Tom looks startled.  “It’s the 2nd already?  What happened to the 1st?”</p><p>“You were asleep.  I woke you up briefly -- do you remember?”</p><p>Tom nods, looking stunned.  “Well,” he says after a bit, “that’s my new record, then.”  His attempt at humor lacks its usual life and his smile is forced, now.  </p><p>“What happened out there?” Will asks, working to keep the concern out of his voice.  “Was it other ghosts?”</p><p>Tom shakes his head.  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says immediately, face closing off.  “Don’t ask me right now because I don’t want to think about it, even.”</p><p>Will digests this for a moment.  He recognises the stubborn set to Tom’s shoulders and the mulish expression, and knows that he won’t be getting any answers out of him now.  </p><p>“Alright, I won’t ask,” he says.  He picks his next words with care.  “You were in bad shape when you got back.  I’d hate to see you like that again is all.”</p><p>Tom nods shortly.</p><p>“Is this what the rest of the war will be like, Scho?” he asks quietly after several minutes of silence.</p><p>Will thinks about what Tom means by this question.  It’s been a war, with much of it all the same. The battle the past few days hasn’t stood out from anything else Will has experienced, save for the fact that he’s responsible for more men, now.  </p><p>“It’s all been like this so far,” Will says, meaning <em> yes, probably. </em>  Tom sighs.  </p><p>They do not say anything else through the rest of the watch.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>5/4/2020: If you would like a humorous addition to offset any sadness -- we recommend watching the first 5ish minutes of ManyATrueNerd's "I Am Bread - The Toast of the Town" video and imagining it's Tom, haunting a slice of bread.  [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQL4X3F0Bx0]</p><p>Original A/N: Hey guys!!  Who has been waiting so wonderfully and patiently for a 15+k monster chapter reliant on a very over-encumbered delivery system transporting an actual hard copy book to a trained historian who currently teaches English?  You have!  And you are SO AMAZING, YES YOU ARE!!!  Seriously, we love all of you!!!  Your comments are lovely and wonderful and really inspire both of us to go above and beyond.  </p><p>Next: There has been a distressing amount of comments that are centered on how we are treating the lovely William Schofield, he who is precious and most wonderful above all other beings on this plane of existence.  We would like to reassure the readers that the purpose of this story is not to hurt, break, or destroy Sergeant William Schofield.  The authors would like to point out he has already been broken and is currently trying really hard just to survive and not be terrible!  Rather, the purpose of this story is to allow Lance Corporal Tom Blake to realise the extent of his own personal breakage, and hopefully come to terms with it (because he is Dead).  We are adding the "Fix-it" tag to this work because -- well, that is what this series is actually about.  </p><p>That being said, the next chapter is INDEED another interlude, and INDEED stars Joseph.  Please hold whilst we upload the next chapter, in three, two, one . . . week!  Expect it next Friday.</p><p>Lastly -- since we have spent two weeks being hyper-zealous of our historical accuracy, we have added some notes below.  It will be included in all future Authors’ Notes, preceded by “Historical Notes” and will talk about relevant facts.  If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask us in the comments or on tumblr -- Pavuvu is @marbat and I'm @lizofalltrades!!! </p><p>Historical Notes:</p><p>1.  What battle was this?<br/>This is the Third Battle of Ypres, the start to Passchendaele.  </p><p>2.  How accurate is this account of the battle?<br/>The 2nd Devons did actually take part in this battle -- everything described in this fic about what they faced (the objectives, the place names, the description of the landscape) are as accurate as we can make them.  HOWEVER, all of the characters mentioned are totally fictional!   Some of the things that happen to the characters are based on real events that happened to other people.  </p><p>3.  Was the mud actually that bad at the battle?<br/>Yes, it was actually that bad.  The sheer volume of the barrage the British and French troops used churned up the ground so much that when the rain started (it was not weather the British anticipated when they were planning the attack, though they had the intelligence telling them it would happen), it absolutely devastated the area -- soldiers really did drown in craters.  To give you an idea of how awful this mud was: if you google “stretcher bearers wwi” and click on images, you will probably find the “iconic” stretcher-bearer photo -- taken at the Third Battle of Ypres.  </p><p>4.  Are Schofield and Blake going to do something crazy amazing and RISE UP AGAINST THE OFFICERS??<br/>No, sorry!  This is not that kind of historical revisionism.  However, if you want to read a truly fascinating article on the mutinies of WWI and why the British had the least of all combatants, check this article out!  https://www.westernfrontassociation.com/world-war-i-articles/why-the-british-army-did-not-mutiny-en-masse-on-the-western-front-during-the-first-world-war/</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Interlude II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Scenes from the convalescent leave of Lieutenant Joseph Andrew Blake, from August 15 - October 7, 1917.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Coming home is more of a production than it normally is, but that is because this time it is on a pair of crutches, and Joseph cannot quite seem to manage them and his bag both at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he arrives at the train station, he sees that Mother and Father are not the only ones there to greet him.  Bertie is there as well, a pleasant surprise. Joseph had written to tell him not to come were it too inconvenient, but he had not had time to receive a reply before the hospital had sent him home to recuperate in more relaxed conditions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Bertie who gets to him first, fast despite having a wooden leg and a cane.  He claps an arm around Joseph’s shoulders and pulls him in for a rough embrace, before taking advantage of the distraction to snatch Joseph’s bag free and carry it himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve only the one, Joe,” he says with a laugh, waving his cane in his other hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph makes a face.  “Knew I could count on you to make me feel better about myself,” he says, just as his mother reaches him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh Joseph,” she says helplessly.  She throws her arms around his waist and bursts into tears.  Joseph endures the embrace, doing his best to awkwardly return it without dropping his crutches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bertie waits patiently, a perfect gentleman.  Looking at his friend, Joseph sees that the untidy shock of brown hair is much the same.  But Bertie is much thinner than Joseph remembers, and there are far more lines in his face than Joseph recalls seeing before.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches Joseph’s look and rolls his eyes in a gesture of commiseration and exasperation.  Joseph wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He is sure Bertie’s return home was much the same sort of affair, although his mother probably insisted on picking him up and carrying him home herself.  Mother would never do something so unseemly, though Joseph would not put it past her to consider it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Darling, let him catch his breath,” Father says, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “You’ll topple him over if you’re not careful, and then where will he be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh hush,” Mother retorts, and releases Joseph just as abruptly.  She straightens his uniform, smoothing it with trembling fingers, blinking hard as she wrestles her emotions under control.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father, meanwhile, comes up beside him and clasps his shoulder, tightly, before sliding his grasp to cup the back of Joseph’s neck to discreetly look him over.  Father is not given to showing much emotion, usually. Joseph feels himself relax minutely; he has not felt anything so comforting in a very long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome home, Lieutenant,” Father says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph finds himself overcome by sudden emotion.  He swallows hard. “Thank you, Father,” he says, and fortunately, it is only a little strained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But come, come, let’s load the motorcar,” Mother says briskly, now that she has regained her footing (so to speak).  Joseph can see it parked near the kerb, not too far from where he disembarked. “We needn’t stand here all day. Tell us Joseph -- your father thinks you will want to go straight home, but I was suggesting we go take tea at the Silver Fox since we’re in town anyway, and I know that the scones were made fresh this morning; Albert, you are of course invited to come along, dear.  What would you rather do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, Joseph wouldn’t mind tea.  Mother is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> playing fair, either -- the Silver Fox has the best in town.  But Joseph is suddenly and inexplicably tired, as well. He always manages to forget Mother’s energy.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he says, with the appropriate amount of rueful hesitance, “I’d love tea, Mother, but . . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!  Dear, are you sure?”  His mother does not even wait for Joseph to acknowledge it before she accepts his decision and rattles on.  “Well, all right then. I’ll have Minnie whip something up for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive home is pleasant and unremarkable.  Bertie declines the offer of tea and they make a brief stop at his family’s residence so that he does not have to walk so far.  He promises to come by and visit Joseph and “cheer you up in your convalescence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At home, Father is the one who helps Joseph to his room.  He, too, insists on carrying Joseph’s bag for him, and it makes Joseph feel like he doesn’t quite fit in his skin with the way it violates his principles.  Father is the one with the crippled leg; Joseph has always had the duty of ensuring Father wasn’t overly burdened. Except that now, he isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Undoubtedly, tea will be ready in a half-hour,” Father says in that dearly dry tone of his, once they are in Joseph’s bedroom.  “Will you need any help with those crutches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Joseph says.  “I can manage well enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father nods.  “If you need anything,” he says, and pauses as if to reconsider.  “If you need anything,” he repeats, more firmly, “do not hesitate to ask.  And if you are not sure of what to say, let me know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph blinks.  “I will,” he says, not entirely sure what Father means.  Father nods, and leaves, closing the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph sets his thoughts aside for now.  He will need to freshen up, probably. Mother hasn’t wrinkled her nose at the sight of him yet, but he’s certain that time will correct her oversight.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a quiet knock on his door.  “Some water for washing up, Mr Blake,” Minnie says, voice muffled by the wood and walls.  God Bless Minnie, Joseph thinks, relieved at not having to make a trip to the water closet.  He lets her in. She hasn’t changed, he sees, and she walks in as tall and straight as ever, balancing an old-fashioned water-basin on her hip and carrying a ewer in one hand.  She sets both within easy reach on the table and bobs a curtsy before leaving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he takes off his tunic to wipe away the grime, his pocket jingles.  Joseph stills, then fishes them out: Tom’s two rings and his identity tag.  Joseph could never quite bear to -- to wash them clean. He knew that if the Army retrieved the bodies of their soldiers left to lay where they fell in battle, they were interred in the graveyards in France.  These stains are the only trace of Tom left to him. To Mother, to Father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands shaking, he puts them back in his pocket.  He will have to present them when the topic arises, but he can keep them a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mother is out today, making social calls.  As he spoons sugar into the tea Minnie has prepared for him, Joseph hopes the Prescott girls do not choose to conveniently “drop by” -- he does not feel up to entertaining them by himself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears the creaking before he sees Father -- Joseph and Tom could always tell when Father was nearby, even as children.  Joseph pretends not to notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feel up to company?”  When Joseph looks up, Father hefts a cut-glass decanter filled with brandy.  It is from his study.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph is paralyzed for a moment, instincts warring.  Were Mother here, she would go absolutely mad -- indecency, impropriety, im-something-or-other.  Were he with the rest of the 2nd, a chorus of cheers would be the appropriate reaction. He looks down at his teacup instead, buying time.  Father waits patiently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Joe says eventually, and holds it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father pours a nice splash into Joseph’s tea, which Joseph sips with gratitude.  Father also adds a hefty dollop to the teapot and selects one of the decorative cups Mother has set out for decoration.  As Joseph watches, he blows the dust out of it, and pours himself a cup. He slurps at it, as unmannerly as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sip together in contemplative silence for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are troubled,” Joseph’s father says eventually, also as shrewd as ever.  “Is it about Tom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph looks into his tea.  He knows some women in Halifax proper can read tea leaves, but it’s mostly gossip as to what they mean -- and besides, they can’t be read without draining the cup.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father waits, as is his way.  Joseph reflects seriously on how he and Tom had joked that the only reason Mother deigned to consider Father’s offer of marriage was in how effective a manipulator Father was with his patient silence and his attentive ear.  No one could resist it -- least of all Joseph, who had been at their tender mercies since infanthood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In this case, he does not want to resist it.  Joseph is not under the scrutiny of censors or peers, any and all of whom could wreck his career through ill-considered words said to the wrong ear.  He was not raised to keep his opinions to himself; and there are some things that are best considered in the company of others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s my fault that he’s dead,” Joseph says bluntly.  With Mother, he would have hemmed and hawed, dancing around the subject until everyone was too soused to remember this in the morning, but there is no need to dissemble with Father.  Joseph considers all of this, and drains the rest of his tea before pouring himself another cup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father takes a serene sip of tea.  “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph has thought long and hard about this.  Nevertheless, he finds his conclusions hard to put into words -- the appropriate words, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was sent to the 2nd with a message,” Joseph starts, and stops.  This explains nothing; he backtracks. “It was specifically a message calling off an attack that would have led us and another battalion into a trap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds very important,” Father says neutrally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.  But -- why was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tom</span>
  </em>
  <span> sent with the message?”  Joseph does not quite dare to say it.  He’s a part of the army, after all, and may one day have to take orders from the same men who sent Tom to his death.  He drinks more tea instead before trying again. “Why was </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> chosen, out of all the others in the 8th?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence.  Joseph contemplates emptying his cup and refilling it straight from the decanter.  He can feel the effects of the alcohol in the tea already, smoothing the sharper edges of his emotions, but he feels privately that he will need a lot more than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know what it is you are trying to suggest,” Father says eventually.  “But I think you would know better than I, the answer to your question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph listens, frowning.  That’s not an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Father is not finished.  He looks at Joseph seriously and asks, “Is it your estimation that morale is so low among our troops?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph finds he did not </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> follow the subject change.  “So low as what? The men are . . . well, they aren’t always cheerful -- it’s a hell of a war.”  Joseph pauses a moment, thinking on how they have acted with addition of the reinforcements and Schofield as a Sergeant.  5th Platoon has not been unmanageable in the slightest. “They’re not unhappy, no.” His tone implies </span>
  <em>
    <span>and why are you asking?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Father nods.  “Let me clarify.  Is morale so low amongst our troops that a commanding officer in possession of intelligence -- intelligence that could save a battalion -- intelligence that needs to be delivered -- would specifically select a man who has personal connections to that battalion to deliver it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spoken so plainly, it makes Joseph’s breath catch.  He gulps his tea to cover his reaction. To his chagrin, he can feel his face heating up and the sting of tears in his eyes.  Morale is not that low in the 5th Platoon of B Company of the 2nd Devons -- but he cannot say the same for Tom’s old regiment.  He has seen the quiet despondency on Schofield’s face when Joseph’s Sergeant does not think Joseph is looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father covers Joseph’s hand with his own.  Joseph looks at him and is a little surprised to see the wet in Father’s eyes.  “My son,” Father says quietly, “whether or not he was chosen because he was your brother, it is not your fault.  Tom was not chosen to die. Tom was chosen to deliver a message.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is both the wrong thing -- and the right thing.  Joseph feels like there was a spring stopped up with a cork in his chest, a cork that is wrenched free with these words.  Everything spills out -- all the fear at being wounded, the lingering grief of Tom’s death. The pervasive and creeping sense of guilt that Tom wouldn’t have been put in harm’s way if Joseph hadn’t been in the 2nd.  Joseph feels the tears roll down his face and does not stop Father when Father takes the teacup from his hands and pulls him into a hard embrace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph is not certain how Mother has managed it, but she has struck upon the thought that a formal service for Tom is somehow appropriate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well.  All right, that is not fair to say -- it is entirely appropriate to hold a service for Tom.  What Joseph disagrees with is being the object of the service.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mother has arranged for a nice headstone to be placed in the cherry orchard.  Though Joseph has not seen the infamous letter that Schofield sent his parents, Father mentioned briefly that Schofield had written about a farm; Joseph can only suppose that Mother connected it with her beloved cherry trees.  He thinks it a patent mischaracterisation, as Tom only ever complained incessantly about the chore of picking the bloody things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To compound on this, Mother has invited half the town to be there.  The vicar is leading the service, obviously, and a great deal of the congregation has come, swathed in their best clothing and as earnestly insincere as Joseph remembers.  For God’s sake, he can see two of the older gentlemen, too old and too married to be sent to the Front, flirting with the younger, eligible women. His brother, his only brother, is dead, and they are treating it as a social event.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And not the least -- he is the object of interest of a dozen girls and not even less than that of the married women.  They see him standing with his parents, his weight on crutches, and they </span>
  <em>
    <span>watch</span>
  </em>
  <span> him with great intent.  Joseph would have felt more at home facing a firing squad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lilian Prescott is there, of course.  She engages him in light, utterly meaningless chatter as the service ends, while Mother warns anyone else off with her serenely terrifying presence.  Lilian is pleasant. Nevertheless, Joseph wishes he was back at the Front. At least Schofield’s grief is genuine.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey guys!  SurprISE UPDATE, WOOO!</p><p>If you haven't had enough, yet, and/or are wild in anticipation -- pause; take a deep breath.  And go have some sweetness and lightness of a more uncomplicated time.  A fourth work has been added to the series -- it's a prequel -- written by the INCREDIBLE and AWESOME Pavuvu!  You can find it here --&gt; http://archiveofourown.org/works/23403325!  (Don't get too many ideas about courting her, though -- sorry, we are fandom-married and she is mine.)</p><p>We hope you are all having okay times.  Research for the next chapter has proved to be unexpectedly horrible, but we are planning on having it out by the 6th or 7th.  As always, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask us in the comments or on tumblr -- Pavuvu is @marbat and I'm @lizofalltrades!!!</p><p>Stay safe, and be well &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. October 10th - December 5th, 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The only way forward is through.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please note that the tags have been updated.  See also that the time span of this chapter is much larger than normal -- we cover roughly two months' worth of time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>October 10th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When Joseph finds himself on his way back to the 2nd, he discovers that he is sent to the Ploegsteert sector.  There, the 8th Division holds the 7,000 yards of the Front between the river Lys in the south and the river Douve in the north.  But to find the right part of the line, where the 2nd Devons are stationed, is no small task.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each Division has at least three Brigades, and each Brigade usually has four Battalions.  The 2nd Devons are one of the four battalions in the 23rd Infantry Brigade, along with the 2nd Middlesex, 2nd West Yorks, and 2nd Scottish Rifles.  Attached to their Brigade is the 23rd Brigade’s Battery and Machine-Gun Company. Together with the 24th and 25th Infantry Brigades, along with the 24th’s and 25th’s adjunct Batteries and Machine-Gun Companies, they make up the whole of the 8th Division.  This is a lot of soldiers and support, and as a result, finding the right spot is tricky. When he finally locates the 23rd Infantry Brigade, Joseph finds he is directed to the rear of the lines. They have just been relieved of duty at the Front by the 25th Infantry earlier that week.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph walks up in fine spirits.  Already he sees familiar faces -- some officers from the other battalions mostly -- and exchanges greetings with several.  He does feel somewhat out-of-place; usually his leave is no more than two weeks. This time, he has been away for over two months.  Sergeant Schofield has written him only brief responses to Joseph’s letters, whose contents were so sparse Joseph could only surmise that their time here was very quiet.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant Blake!” he hears someone call.  Joseph would know that accent anywhere -- it’s Lieutenant Richards.  He is striding towards Joseph, grinning fit to burst, being trailed by one of B Company’s batmen.  But no, wait -- Joseph sees the tripled star on his friend’s uniform’s cuffs when he turns to look at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph grins and salutes.  “Captain Richards,” he says.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At ease,” Richards says, returning the salute pompously and grins back.  He shakes Joseph’s hand vigorously. “Welcome back, Lieutenant. I do believe the men have missed you.  Able to get enough relaxation at home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough, yes,” Joseph says, trying not to remember the subtly skin-crawling strangeness of living in domestic normality for so long after nearly a year on and off the Front.  Then he remembers the steady stream of eligible young women Mother selected to parade for him after he made it clear he was uninterested in Lilian Prescott and adds, with feeling, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“More</span>
  </em>
  <span> than enough.  It was good to see my family, but -- they can be a bit much at times.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards laughs and claps him on the shoulder.  “Well come on, then, I’ll take you to the boys in the 5th.  You, grab his things and take them to the room he’s sharing with Lieutenant Graham, would you?” he says to the batman, who relieves Joseph of his baggage and trots off.  Richards turns back to Joseph and continues right where he left off. “They’re in a do-or-die football match today with the men of the 10th, and the field we’ve been using is out of the way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph raises his eyebrows.  “I take it things have been quiet, then?” he says as they begin walking in the opposite direction as the batman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” Richards says cheerfully.  “We’ve seen no more than the usual activity -- some exchanges of artillery fire, patrolling -- you know how it is.  There was an attempted raid by the enemy nearly three weeks ago, but we weren’t involved in it at all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent,” Joseph says with satisfaction.  It was very heavy action that the boys were in around Ypres, after all.  Joseph is relieved to hear that they had indeed been moved to a quieter sector.  Plus, he is cheered at the thought that he had correctly interpreted the reason for the lack of information his Sergeant sent him while Joseph was away.  “I’m assuming we received replacements for our losses?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes,” Richards replies.  “There are still a few platoons that are short-strength, but B Company is back up to full fighting capacity.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are they fitting in?” Joseph asks.  Sometimes integrating new troops into old units was difficult -- too many new replacements led to factions developing between the men, often forming around old feuds or the divisive line of comparative experience.  “I never did hear what our casualties were after Ypres.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our total casualties after the second offensive on the 16th came out to 320 or so and about half of those are men who either have or are expected to recover and return,” Richards says, his tone suddenly more formal.  “The ones we’ve gotten as replacements, though -- they’ve been doing well enough. The odd fistfight of course, but nothing serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up ahead, Joseph can see there is a crowd of soldiers, though given the vantage point -- they are on higher ground -- he is unable to see precisely what they are crowding around.  He can guess, though, as a roar suddenly goes up from one end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you say it was a do-or-die football match?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes -- you recall Captain Hallewell’s fondness for football?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Joseph replies.  Captain Hallewell was the Captain of A Company, and was notorious for the sums of money he bet on the outcomes of the various football matches started by the enlisted.  Joseph distinctly recalled the man putting a sum of 200 pounds on a particularly contentious match back in June, which he had lost to Captain Manley.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, he’s organised a tournament for 2nd.  If I recall correctly, Hallewell used the excuse of assimilating the new drafts as one of the reasons for organising the football tournament,” Richards says, gesturing up ahead.  “I’m still shocked that Colonel Mackenzie agreed to it; he’s usually very adamant against this sort of thing.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph grins.  “So 5th is doing well, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards looks rueful.  “Well, your boys beat the rest of the platoons in B Company -- including the 7th, damn them! -- so they are facing C Company’s boys in the semi-finals today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they reach the edge of the throng, the man in front of Joseph turns around.  It’s Private Kimberley from the 5th. His face brightens when he recognises Joseph.  “Lieutenant!” he cries, and smacks his neighbor to get his attention. It’s Private Brandt.  They both throw hasty salutes and beam at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back, Sir,” Brandt says.  “Are you recovered, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely.  I’m back and ready for more,” Joseph assures him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well if you’re looking for the Sergeant, Sir, he’s up over there,” Kimberley says, pointing vaguely towards one end of the field.  “This side is all B Company, here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they have caught the attention of others.  Joseph sees more members of 5th Platoon -- it looks as though most of the platoon is either on the field or watching from the sidelines -- have taken notice.  Shortly after, he is crowded by most of them, until Richards shoos them off and demands they clear a path to the sidelines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up at the front, they find Sergeants Schofield and Addington, Graham’s Sergeant in 8th Platoon, in close conference as they watch the game.  As usual, with preternatural awareness, Schofield abruptly pulls away and looks around until he spots Joseph. He immediately makes his way over and salutes.  “Captain Richards, Lieutenant Blake,” he says formally, but Joseph sees the tiniest ghost of a smile lurking in the lines around Schofield’s eyes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph is struck by how much more confident the man seems.  When Joseph had seen him last, battle-stained and kneeling in front of him in the pill-box in Ypres, Schofield had seemed indecisive -- reluctant to take command and lead the men forward.  In contrast, Schofield now stands with the quiet assurance of a man who has thoroughly tested his mettle and found himself entirely capable.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph clasps Schofield’s hand and shakes it with a smile of his own.  “Sergeant Schofield,” he replies with equal solemnity. “You are looking well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schofield’s grin is fleeting, but it is definitely there.  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Sir -- you seem to be doing better as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph nods to the game.  “I see you’ve been keeping the men occupied.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh no, Sir, not me,” Schofield says, and gestures to the field.  “That’s Captain Hallewell and Lance Corporal Farley. I’m just letting them have free reign with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another huge roar around them and a wave of groans from the other side of the field marks B Company’s team scoring a goal.  Sergeant Addington whoops. “Come on boys,” he howls as Schofield contributes some applause. “Give it to ‘em right between the teeth!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the score standing at?” Richards wants to know, voice keen.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s five to us; they’re still at three,” Schofield answers.  “Captain Hallewell is refereeing from over there, and Captain Manley is on this side, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has Hallewell put any money up on the winner of this match?” Joseph can’t help but demand, aghast.  He hasn’t even been around for the organisation of this whole affair, but if Captain Hallewell has even the slightest preference for one outcome over another . . . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards chortles at that.  “Ha! No. Major Hepburn insisted he refrain from betting once it got to the matches between the companies.  I’m to help referee with Dalton tomorrow in the match between A and D Company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From there, the discussion turns to the match and the tournament itself.  Everyone seems to have an opinion on it, and Joseph can see why -- it has certainly livened up the life around camp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The match concludes with 5th Platoon thoroughly trouncing the men of C Company.  Lance Corporal Farley scores the final shot, leading them to victory with four points over their opponents.  The whole team is swept off the field and carried to the mess tent by the men of B Company, who have united in solidarity behind 5th Platoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph takes his time settling in that afternoon, learning the disposition of the encampment.  The line here has not faced heavy engagement, he can see at once; the trenches are in good repair and what buildings have been erected have been well-maintained.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes for the officers’ club, where he is welcomed back with a toast to his good health and much good-natured ribbing about his long leave.  There are other officers besides his new Captain with whom he renews his acquaintance, and he meets for the first time the new officers who have been sent to replace the old -- in the 2nd Devons, Richards’s old position as the Lieutenant of the 7th Platoon has been filled by Andrew Langley, a fresh-faced young man who is 21 and newly-commissioned.  And, though he’s already officially reported to his superiors by talking with Richards, Joseph takes the opportunity to greet Major Hepburn when he spots the Major in the corner, perusing some small book with a brandy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome back, Lieutenant Blake,” Major Hepburn tells him more personally when Joseph comes over.  “Sit a minute; you’ve recovered well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph is a little surprised at the invitation, but inwardly he is pleased -- it is a mark of Hepburn’s regard, and it would be absolutely irresponsible not to take advantage of it.  “Indeed Sir,” Joseph says, seating himself. “I still get a twinge now and then, but nothing worse than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn nods with understanding, seeming to read all Joseph’s mixed feelings about the lengthy time spent at home in a glance.  “Eager to get back to the men?” he asks as Joseph’s drink arrives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very much so,” Joseph says.  “But now I’ve returned, it seems I could have waited a little longer!  Sergeant Schofield has the men all well in order.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent,” Hepburn says as Joseph sips at the drink -- it’s not nearly as good as what he could get at home, but somehow it is better anyway.  “I know you had your doubts when I first approached you about his being promoted to Everard’s position -- I am happy to see you think it has turned out well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph nods seriously.  “Indeed, Sir. But -- how did you put it?  A man of ‘hidden talents?’ It seems every time I turn around, he has managed to smooth things out somehow, and he never fails to rise to the occasion.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Hepburn says, looking thoughtfully at Joseph.  “He does seem to have the knack for it, doesn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation turns to the recent activities of the Battalion, but only continues for another few minutes before Hepburn excuses himself to return to Headquarters.  Joseph stays a while longer at the club, finding that the outcome of the football match earlier is much the topic of discussion. Some of the Lieutenants from the West Yorks are scheming to organise something similar for when they are next off the line, as everyone expects to be back at the front within the next five days -- rotations between the Brigades have been fairly regular, it seems.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By evening, he’s learnt all the camp gossip Joseph can stand.  He makes his excuses. He feels the urge to walk around camp and stretch his legs; he got into the habit at home and found it helps, settling the quiet into his heart.  Even if he can hear the guns from the front thundering in the distance, the slowly-settling camp’s silence is soothing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is leaving the Sergeants’ mess with Sergeant Jones when Joseph tracks him down after supper.  Tom is walking next to his brother, blithely chatting away although Joseph, of course, does not hear him.  Will breaks from his conversation about 5th Platoon’s victory with Jones -- he rather expected the summons to come earlier.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sergeant Schofield, Sergeant Jones,” Joseph greets politely.  “Pardon, but I need some time with you, Schofield.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly, Sir,” Will says.  “Until next time,” he says to Jones, and follows Joseph to the billet he shares with Lieutenant Graham.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hear it’s been quiet,” Joseph comments.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Will says.  “We haven’t seen much action on this stretch of the Front.  It’s been a nice holiday for the men.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right you are, mate,” Tom agrees, with feeling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not so much for you, I’d imagine,” Joseph says lightly.  Will huffs and shrugs a little. “Though I hear from Richards you distinguished yourself in the fighting on the 16th -- a Military Medal for you, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will knew this topic would come up when Joseph returned.  It doesn’t make it any easier to answer. “Yes,” he says, and tries not to squirm while Tom gives him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>look.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  The ribbon from the medal Mackenzie presented him with -- a Distinguished Conduct Medal -- feels weightier than it should where it is pinned to his uniform.  “I see you won something yourself, Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph gives him a look.  “Yes,” he parrots. “But I can’t see you won yours -- where’s your ribbon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was my second, Sir.”  Will does not want to have this conversation.  It was hard enough having Joseph order him to wear Mackenzie’s when he got it;  Will does not want to explain that he traded away both the first medal and the ribbon it came with for a bottle of wine, so that he cannot properly display the bar marking his second award.  “I lost the first one. --Though if I may, Sir,” Will says quickly, grasping for a subject change before Joseph can respond. “The men have missed you terribly. How was your leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve reached Joseph’s billet, now -- Lieutenant Graham is sitting at the table against the wall, penning several letters.  He looks up as they enter, nodding, and turns back to his writing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph makes the most extraordinary face as he sits on his bed.  It reminds Will of Tom, a little, in the number of conflicting emotions that cross it -- ruefulness is there, and sadness, and amusement.  “Mother has decided I am far too eligible to put off marriage,” he says wryly. Behind him, Tom chokes and turns tomato-red. “As a result, leave was -- less restful than I’d anticipated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will coughs hastily to hide the laughter this startles out of him and takes the seat Joseph offers him.  “I’m not sure if that is necessarily a bad thing, Sir,” he says, wondering a bit at Joseph’s openness. Tom is unhelpful at the moment, doubled-over and laughing wildly.  “I suppose there were a lot of them calling on you for tea, then?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unfortunately, yes.  I had to start arranging to be inconveniently ‘out’ by the end of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ask him about Myrtle’s puppies!”  Tom has reigned himself in -- he’s now eager to hear news from home.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom mentioned once your father bred dogs --” Will casts about for an appropriate question that wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion -- “were you able to, I dunno, be off training them when the girls came round?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph looks surprised, then annoyed.  “Damn. That would have been a good excuse.  One of his dogs had a litter in April and he’s been training them up all summer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time, Blake, next time,” Lieutenant Graham says, signing the letter in front of him with a flourish and putting his pen down.  He gets up and stretches with a groan. “I’m off for a drink; I’ll leave you two to it,” he says. He stacks the letters neatly and leaves them at the table, nodding to them on the way out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that reminds me,” Joseph says, and gets back up with a slight hesitation -- his leg must still be readjusting to the exercise of living in the field, Will notes.  He goes to his bag and rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a bottle of brandy. He hands it to Will, who takes it with surprise. It’s a nice label. “From my father, with his regards.  And probably his thanks, though he didn’t phrase it that way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh,” Tom says to Will, scrutinizing it.  “Guess Father really likes you, then. It’s Mum who usually sends people things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s very kind of him to remember me,” Will says, both warmed by the gesture and a little unsettled at the implications of it.  He hadn’t looked to become socially connected with Joseph Blake, but it appeared that it was happening whether or not he wanted it.  Then again, that was what happened with Tom; Will probably should have expected this.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continue to chat pleasantly for some time before Will feels comfortable enough to excuse himself.  Joseph is of course interested in the goings-on of the men of 5th Platoon, and Will vastly prefers talking about them over himself.  By the end of the evening, Will is well-satisfied that Joseph has returned in good health, eager as anything to get back to the business of leading the men.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad he is back,” Will murmurs to Tom when they are outside, after Joseph and Will have bid each other a good night.  “He’s a good man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And a good officer,” Tom says with relief.  “But thank you -- I was glad to hear the news from home; he told you much more than he told anyone else.  I am happy you two are becoming friends, even if he isn’t nearly as funny as me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re irreplaceable, Tom,” Will says, and means it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>October 13th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>5th Platoon represents B Company in the final match with A Company.  It is a fiercely contested match and a whole hell of a lot of fun!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom absolutely revels in the whole event.  He can run around on the field with the players, if he so desires, and no one can tell him not to!  (Not that he does -- he doesn’t want to accidentally run through one of Will’s boys and cause them to flinch at the wrong time.)  He mostly stands on the sidelines, running up and down them to get better vantage points with no regard for the men crowding up against the edge.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe and Will have been given places of prominence in the spectators.  As the Lieutenant and the Sergeant of the team, they have been pushed forwards to have unrestricted views of the field.  Captain Richards stands nearby, thoroughly ragging Captain Hallewell. Both Captains have been barred from refereeing and are responsible for keeping each other from intervening while Captain Dalton and Captain Manley ensure the play stays fair.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe and Will spend a lot of the time talking.  Tom comes up at one point (just after the 5th scores a goal with a long shot that slips straight through the goalie’s outstretched hands, to much cheering) to find that Joe is in the middle of telling Will embarrassing childhood stories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- which is why we weren’t allowed to play with the Wilton boys anymore,” Joe says, laughing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is grinning outright.  “That sounds exactly like something he would do,” he tells Joe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, are you lot talking about the time they tried to cheat and I punched the oldest boy in the nose?” Tom demands.  “It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> entertaining, we had to go home and explain it all to Mum afterwards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if you couldn’t play with the Wilton boys, who did you play with after that?” Will asks, smoothly ignoring Tom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, some of the lads from Halifax.  They’d have huge matches on the common; we’d join whenever Mother took us with her on her calls in town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh,” Tom adds, remembering the endlessness of calls for tea or social chatting.  If Mother visited someone who didn’t have children their age, he and Joe would be required to sit politely through the whole thing.  “Those matches were a lifesaver, let me tell you. There’s only so often you can listen to the same bit of gossip before you want to slip toads into the teapot just for a bit of relief.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Joe cannot hear him, so Tom can’t elaborate for Will when he sees Will’s eyes crinkle a little with interest -- a shame, it’s a hell of a story -- because Joe asks Will, “What about you?  Why aren’t you on the field in all this? It looks like it’d be right up your street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will shakes his head.  “Oh no, I was never any good at football,” he says.  “No one wanted me on their team when I was younger, and for good reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will considers this.  He snorts a little and looks down at the ground for inspiration.  “Well,” he says, “I was once playing with some of the other boys from school.  I managed to hit all of them in the game at some point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, just by banging into them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, with the ball.  Couldn’t aim for shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe laughs.  Tom does, too -- he can just picture it: Will, face screwed up in concentration, kicking mightily -- for the ball to sail right through the air and smack some poor child in the face.  That’d be him, aiming for the kill no matter the contest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So Farley is doing better,” Joe says after a bit.  “He looks like he’s much more pleased with himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will shrugs a little.  Farley had been the Lance Corporal who resisted the new Sergeant the most, to the extent that Will had resorted to leaning on Weld or Oakes to pass along directives -- in his quiet, manipulative fashion.  It had diminished since the battle at Ypres -- seeing Will keep his head while involved in heavy action seems to have done the trick in winning the men over -- but it hadn’t entirely gone away.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once Captain Hallewell had organised this tournament, though, Farley had had a reformation of character and transformed into a model Lance Corporal.  That was probably because Will had asked him to take charge of the football team for the Platoon. At their first successes, Will had showered him with praise; now, Farley was the king of the Platoon.  And he didn’t buck Will’s authority anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got a way with organising them towards a common goal,” Will says.  “He just needed the opportunity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll make a good Sergeant if he’s able to find the position,” Joe says thoughtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Planning on getting rid of me already?” Will asks dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe, Tom sees with pleasure, has learned Will’s subtle humor; he catches the jest and does not take it seriously.  “Oh no, of course not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chatter continues.  A Company scores two goals in quick succession, bringing the score neck and neck at 3 each.  The crowd around them groans. Many of the men have penny bets riding on this game, and the players on the field are sure to get an earful if they manage to blow it in the final few minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I miss this,” Tom says from his spot behind Will.  He doesn’t quite manage to keep the wistfulness out of his voice.  “Being able to talk to Joe -- to both of you, really. Being able to actually take part in a conversation.”  The teams are fighting over the ball at the far side of the field, and with the game so close, both Will and Joe’s eyes are glued to  the action. Will though, drums his fingers where his hand rests on his elbow to show he’s listening. Tom continues, almost without thinking.  “Do you ever think -- I don’t know, it’s silly, maybe --- but do you think there’d be a way for Joe to hear me too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instantly, Tom knows it was a poor thing to say.  An unsettled tension thrums right through Will, and Tom immediately backtracks.  “I mean, it’s just a silly thought, I know it could never work,” he says, awkwardly, but it seems to be the right thing to say; Will is able to take a breath and consciously relax himself again.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that exact moment, in the last few seconds of the game, A Company’s team lands one in the goal.  The crowd erupts into a frenzy. As Will and Joseph get caught up in the hubbub of disappointed members of B Company and Hallewell’s victorious preening, he wonders what Will is thinking -- what could possibly be so bad about having someone else they could talk to?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 10th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Will braces himself.  “On three,” he says to the two soldiers at his side.  The more hapless of the two is Private Pickering, who is sunk up to his chest in the mud.  The other, Private Evans, kneels on the duckboards next to Will. “One -- two -- three!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Evans heave up.  Will feels the strain through his whole body as the mud resists the force, exerting its own icy pull over the shivering Pickering.  Slowly and with much effort, he and Evans are able to lever Pickering free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving back to Passchendaele is not what anyone wanted.  Will supposes they were spoiled by their time in Ploegsteert, which was massively better just in terms of not having to go through all this bloody mud.  Now, they haven’t even gotten to the part of the line they’re to be stationed at; they are still crossing what is left of the battlefield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miles of duckboards wind across the mire.  Soldiers trickle on them, reduced in many places to single-file queues that are swiftly disrupted when enemy shells land.  God help the poor men who are crossing a section that gets hit.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, they have not encountered any blown-up walkways, yet.  Will shudders to think of having to wait for the duckboard detail to come out and fix things up, though it would be far better than having to attempt to ford a gap in the boards that wasn’t large enough to warrant fixing.  And they’ve seen what happens to the men who grow impatient and forge ahead anyway . . .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will does his best to catch hold of any spirits he finds, each so caught up in the feel of the sinking ground they died in that they can’t bring their ghosts to escape it.  But even Tom is dispirited and dull, not at all his usual lively self. It reminds Will of how Tom was after the battle, when Tom had finally woken up. He supposes that Tom is remembering whatever event that sunk him into his prior melancholy </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Will hasn’t any way to broach the subject.  The whole platoon is stretched out over murk that will swallow a man whole; Pickering is only the third they’ve had to stop to get out today, and it isn’t even noon.  The rest of the men grumble; no one wants to be stuck out here for so long, but there is no way around it. To go too fast is to risk more men winding up in the muck. And being in such close quarters means Will can’t even whisper surreptitiously to Tom, though Tom looks like he could use the comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Comfort . . . actually, maybe Will can help.  He tugs lightly at Tom’s spirit to get his attention.  When he sees Tom’s eyes on him, he runs a hand over his breast-pocket as though checking for something and raises his eyebrows.  Tom looks briefly conflicted, expression shifting between his usual bullishness and an unusual fear before his face crumples and he nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will lets him in, gently folding him into his tin alongside his photographs and his letters.  Tom shivers, then settles -- Will can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> him relaxing.  This leaves Will free to return his attention to the men and to the task at hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They must keep on.  They’ve levered Pickering free and gotten him back on his feet to catch up with the rest, at least, but they’ve miles yet to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 12th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They are settled at the line and the countryside is familiar.  The countryside is terrifying. Tom feels his dead flesh creep and crawl until it feels like everything stands on end, but he can’t keep hiding in Will’s tin forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that it is nearing winter, the rain is regular.  The ground is soft (so soft, where normally it would be frozen and hard) and wet.  It doesn’t take much for Tom to recall the smothering mud and treacherous waters of the battlefield from two months ago, though now -- for the living soldiers -- the wind is freezing, and everything is miserably cold instead of just miserable.  To remember his own powerlessness when he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been able to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say, Will,” he says, practically startling himself with how loudly he says it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will doesn’t look up from the rip he is mending in his tunic, so it mustn’t have been as loud as Tom heard it.  Unusually, they are in the dugout alone -- this is probably why Will feels free to respond. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned seeing ghosts after meeting the Grim,” Tom says slowly, feeling his way through the precise wording.  He has been thinking about this on some level since they had this conversation a month ago and he doesn’t want to muck it up.  “And you met the Grim by staying overnight in a graveyard. Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will draws thread through the cloth a little more tightly than normal; his hold on the needle starts to whiten the joints in his fingers.  “Yes?” he says, clearly suspecting where Tom is going with this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’you think Joe could do something similar?” Tom asks.  He says it all rushed despite his care, and feels himself wince.  He hopes Will hasn’t noticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will stops.  Somehow he projects a careful stillness even as he takes his time to loosely settle the needle next to the rip, fixing it in place with several wide stitches that dart in and out the cloth around the shining metal.  He sets it aside and looks up at Tom seriously from where he’s sitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom, desperately, does not squirm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom tries meeting Will’s eyes, and finds he cannot.  He fixedly examines the wood-grain of his rifle’s stock instead.  He doesn’t know what to say. It’s still all a jumble in his head -- the soldier drowning, Tom’s inability to help.  How his best efforts to make a difference just wound up hurting his brother. How he wouldn’t have seen it if he’d just stayed with Will.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I could do more to help if someone else could see me,” he chooses.  He glances at Will and immediately looks back down; it feels like this is a terrible idea, that Will won’t go for it.  “I know you can trust Joe with it, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s hands are white where they are gripping the cloth.  “You don’t know what you are asking,” he says after a long moment and a shaky inhale.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” Tom says quickly, talking over his friend’s rejection because he has to make Will listen.  “You could use some extra help with the ghosts, I know you could, and this way you wouldn’t have to make excuses for when you disappear, and I could roam around more and when you two aren’t together I can make sure someone gets the information -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ -- and what if you’re unconscious again, or, or what if you get trapped -- ” Tom is aware that his tone and volume both are rising, but this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>important</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- “like in the mud, and you can’t get out on your own -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All Tom hears is the implied </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, we could do it, but no, we’re not going to</span>
  </em>
  <span> and loses his temper entirely.  “For fuck’s sake! Why can’t you just let me help?” Tom shouts, kicking at the table in frustration.  He sees Will flinch back, and stops, immediately feeling ashamed.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom stomps around the dugout for a bit.  He is behaving in the most deplorable fashion and his family would be ashamed of him.  “I just want to help,” he finally says to the wall from the far end of the room, when he feels like he can say things without screaming.  He tries to make it even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks, he sees that Will just sits, watching him.  He has the expressionless face on, the one where he is hiding everything because he doesn’t know who he can trust.  Tom hasn’t seen it directed at himself since February. It cuts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do help,” Will says.  His tone is more expressive than his face; it communicates Will’s confusion about Tom’s behaviour as well as genuine feeling.  He does feel as though Tom is doing the best he can.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom does not agree and feels it as a stinging and bitter untruth.  He could do so much more, if he weren’t dead.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You help me with finding the ghosts,” Will says.  “You scout ahead and get us information that Headquarters doesn’t bother telling us.  You’ve saved my life more times than I can count.” He is trying to help Tom; he is sincere in what he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Tom knows all this already.  That’s not the point. “I could do more,” he says.  “If I wasn’t dead, I could be doing loads more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will starts to say something, and stops.  He can’t seem to figure out what to say to that.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what?  I’m going to go find Joe,” Tom says abruptly.  “I’ll be back later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tom -- ” Will starts, but Tom is already out the door and walking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 21st</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph looks at the letters, currently the source of his unease.  He can’t help it; it feels so . . . off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One is from Mother; the other is from Father.  Father’s is simple and soothes his thoughts. Mother’s does not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph isn’t sure what this is.  He thinks he knows, intellectually, that this is what officers get; this is the stress of the work they must complete.  Between writing letters to the family of deceased soldiers and keeping one’s head up for the men -- urging them onward when the chances they will die are high -- he knows, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this is something that may affect him.  That it is set off by something so trivial as a letter from home is the shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Father writes.  He is sensible and practical.  Father inquires about such matters as would properly concern a Lieutenant working to further a military career.  Father reminds Joseph that one can live this life and come home afterwards -- even if it does seem very far away, now.
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mother, though -- Mother is effervescent.  She is full of gossip and light-hearted topics.  She wants him to be married.  Joseph knows what she does not acknowledge: she wants him to father children, so that even if he dies, she will have something of him and his brother left to her.  This thought curls in the back of his throat like the terrible rum ration the men get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone knocks on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is Captain Richards; he comes in without waiting for Joseph’s acknowledgement.  Fair enough, Joseph supposes. He is the Captain and, after two years working together, an old friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards sees him sitting on his bed with his letters and immediately deduces that something is off.  “What’s all this, then?” he asks. Joseph sets the letters aside and rises to salute, as is proper, but Richards waves him off.  “If I wanted the formalities, I wouldn’t have come in on you like this,” he says with a flash of good-natured mischief.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph has to smile at that.  Richards was always the kind to just give it a go and shrug off the consequences.  It’s refreshing. “Nothing, really,” he responds. “Just mail from home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards seems to understand Joseph’s general sense of conflict.  “Nothing terrible, I trust?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not at all.  Just . . .” Joseph struggles to find the words.  “Different,” he settles on saying. “It just reminds one how different things are back at home right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it rather is,” Richards agrees mildly.  For a moment, Joseph sees a shadow of something similar pass over the Captain’s face.  But he shakes it away. “Perhaps a drink will settle you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, are you headed to the club?”  Joseph could use the distraction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking of it.  And you could use a distraction that’s not one of your long evening walks,” Richards says, shrewdly.  “I heard they managed to get their hands on a case of Kilbeggan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph could </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> use the distraction.  He puts the letters away in his bag and follows Richards out of the billet.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take their time with the walk; it is early evening, about time for supper.  Joseph realises he still hasn’t eaten. Well, he can get something at the club to sort that out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we’re due to relieve the 24th in a few days,” Richards says casually when they aren’t close enough to others to be overheard.  “I’ve also heard Mackenzie has orders to do something more exciting than the usual hold-the-front faff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An offensive?” Joseph asks, a little surprised.  This area is so bloody awful just to be in, most commanders have contented themselves with sitting tight.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as such, no.  Just some action,” the Captain says.  “Maybe one of those demonstrations, where we pull up those dummies to simulate going over -- get them to waste their ammunition shooting at ghosts.  That sort of thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph sighs.  He’s not sure if he’s relieved at that or not.  He doubts Mackenzie will be interested in something so mundane, though; the Colonel is a man who likes to do things solidly.  This sort of feint is not his style. Joseph wonders how many of his men will be killed in whatever sortie ensues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why borrow trouble?” Richards continues.  He clasps Joseph’s shoulder, seeming to sense the melancholy creeping back over him.  “Who knows. Mackenzie might tell them to stuff it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe he gets away with that,” Joseph says, forcibly turning his mind away from the grim calculations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards smiles wryly.  “That’s what being part of the old guard, gets you I suppose.”  He pauses. “And being a Colonel.” He elbows Joseph a little. “Something to aim for, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like you’ve enough aspirations for yourself already,” Joseph replies.  “Whatever would I do with them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dinner in the club is essentially the same stuff they serve in the officers’ mess, but here, Joseph can wash it down with whiskey that doesn’t make him think of the neighbors’ backyard brew back at home.  The club is full tonight; word has gotten round about the mysterious procurement of some sort of high-end liquor (gin is what the West Yorks heard, while brandy is what Middlesex had as rumor -- only the Rifles seem to have got it right) and everyone wants to sample it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a time, the noise of several inebriated officers in high spirits is all a touch too much for Joseph.  He’s pleasantly tipsy but the alcohol that normally soothes away the little anxieties seems to have left him more exposed to the noise.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richards is deep in conversation with Manley at the moment.  Joseph doesn’t want to interrupt it; he makes the snap decision that he will beg Richards’s forgiveness on the morrow.  He leaves discreetly and meanders through the rear of the line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant Blake?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Schofield, Joseph sees when he turns.  He, too, is out by himself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Will,” Joseph says.  “What’re you doing out here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schofield shrugs.  “Just taking in the night air, I suppose.”  He peers at Joseph, who sees the flash of concern; he is utterly unsurprised with how Will asks “I -- Joseph, are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph wonders how Will does it, how he sees more than anyone else.  “Yes,” Joseph deflects, because he doesn’t want to go into it. “I’m well enough for the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sees that Will wants to pry.  And Joseph, suddenly, wants him to ask.  Schofield has been where Joseph has been, leading the men of 5th Platoon; Will has known Tom.  If there is anyone he can trust, it is Will.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for all that Will sees, Schofield is a cautious man.  He does not ask. Joseph changes the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re moving up the line in a few days,” he says as Schofield falls into step with him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we know for how long, Sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The others have been on the front for about six days, so far; I expect it’ll be the same for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schofield makes a sound of acknowledgement.  They both know it could wind up being much longer; but for now, they can take comfort in the fact that so far, the other brigades have been relieved regularly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Briefly, Joseph thinks about telling him that there may be some additional action, but he decides against it.  Why borrow trouble, after all? Whatever happens, they’ll be able to see the men through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 22nd</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we talk?” Tom asks abruptly.  He’s been quiet all day. Will has been waiting for him to spit out whatever is burdening him; Will doesn’t mind that Tom finally interrupts him while Will is in the midst of scratching out a few words after supper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will glances around casually.  There are a lot of people nearby, here; so no.  He finishes the sentence and folds up the letter; it will keep for now.  He leaves the dugout and goes outside. They both keep silent as they walk out towards the edge of camp.  There’s a secluded spot Will thinks he saw just past the Casualty Clearing Station; he makes for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will, I just don’t like it,” Tom says when they arrive.  He’s agitated. Will darts a look around -- he’s purposefully meandered out and away from the encampment a bit, finding a fringe -- the remains of a small copse of trees, long since cut down by shellfire -- where he can be certain of relative privacy.  Or so he hopes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Will asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like Joe not hearing me,” Tom says.  Now that Will can look at him properly, he sees that Tom is definitely not calm; he’s jittering in place, almost, form shifting and sputtering like a spirit caught in the rain.  It makes Will nervous. “I have a bad feeling about when they move us up the line, I just do. I don’t like that you’re the only one who can hear me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you don’t like it,” Will tells Tom, frowning with his growing unease.  They’ve already talked about this and Will is not risking it. “I’m sorry about that.  But I’m not going to tell Joseph how to see ghosts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom appears in front of him, looking at him seriously -- as serious as Will has ever seen.  He does not look happy, or charming, or anything remotely like he normally looks like. “I can’t stand it,” he says heavily.  “I can’t stand seeing everything the way it is and not being able to help you -- help Joe. I just -- I can do more and all I need is for Joe to hear me -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then what?” Will interrupts harshly, wrestling down his rising anxiety.  Telling the truth about this particular aspect of his life is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> something that has worked out well, not in the Army.  He does not want to jeopardize his -- his place here. “And then you’ll be able to talk and see each other?  Because he wouldn’t just see you, Tom, he’d see </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them.  Do you want him experiencing that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom just looks at him, stubbornly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, do you?” Will snaps.  “Because I can tell you right now, Tom, I don’t think --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg your pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bottom drops out of Will’s stomach.  For a long, long moment the world around him is absolutely silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will turns and looks and there is Joseph.  Lieutenant Blake. Alone -- there is no one with him, none of the men who would definitely take this the wrong way -- and Will remembers suddenly that Joseph had mentioned making a habit of evening walks some time ago.  His expression is that of confusion, confusion that flits between concern and anger.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will opens his mouth to say something but words fail him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With whom,” the Lieutenant repeats, voice dangerously flat, “are you speaking, Sergeant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will doesn’t know what to say.  He waits for Tom to jump in -- Tom always knows what to say -- but he says nothing.  Will sneaks a look -- Tom is looking at Joseph in excitement. Will realises that Tom -- Tom wants this?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom knows about the evening walks, too, Will remembers distantly, because he follows Joseph around on them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you pretending to talk to my brother?”  Lieutenant Blake’s voice is shaking. When Will looks back at him, his face is a mask of disbelief and hurt.  “Is this a joke, Sergeant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I -- no, Sir.”  His chest is growing tight with rising panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is Will’s worst nightmare.  He looks back at Tom, whose excitement slides into surprise -- perhaps he is surprised by the Lieutenant’s harsh reaction.  Will remembers that surprise, that shock when his Sergeant reported that Will had lost it, was talking to the dead -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>was ordered out of his original unit, was transferred to the Front to </span>
  </em>
  <span>shake off that hysteria, Private, do you want to be charged with cowardice?</span>
  <em>
    <span>  No, Sir!  Sorry, Sir!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Well we’ll see if we can’t cure you of it --</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-- he is not a coward, he is not, he is not, he volunteered, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he volunteered,</span>
  <em>
    <span> he is </span>
  </em>
  <span>not --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom is looking at him, saying something.  Will stares at him. He is breathless. It takes him some time to understand --  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ -- tell him!  Tell him you can see ghosts, you can trust him, Will -- Will -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Will says, nerveless.  Joseph’s face hurts to look at -- Will can’t look away --   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom is right up in his face, suddenly.  “Will, say it,” he says, tone bordering on frantic.  “Say it -- ‘I can see ghosts,’ say it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I -- I can see ghosts --” he doesn’t know what he is doing any more -- why is his mouth moving?  But this is Tom, Will’s always been able to trust Tom before --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ -- tell him I’m here, Will, that this isn’t a joke, you’re not funning with him -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- since I was eleven,” Will says, coming back to himself a little.  The only way out is through. He must keep moving forward. “It was a dare, it was a dare and I saw a Grim --”  they picked him because he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>trustworthy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> why wouldn’t they believe him?  --No.  <em>That</em> was years ago, but the disbelief he sees on Joseph's face now -- “God damn it, I’m not making it up -- ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-- tell him I’m telling you about when we got separate rooms,” Tom rattles off, words falling over themselves “when I were 10!  I found some photos of his, boudoir photos, and Father had to jump in and keep him from killing me --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is it so hard to breathe?  “Tom says that when he was ten years old he found your boudoir photos and you nearly killed him --”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph recoils from Will as though Will is a hot stove that the Lieutenant has put his hands on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, God.  Oh God, Joseph doesn't believe him.  This is just like -- just like before, with the Sergeant at the Somme, he’s going to -- he’s going to --  Will doubles over, gasping. He can’t seem to catch his breath. Black spots dance across his vision. He is shaking so hard he lands on his knees.  He rests his head on the ground just to feel something stable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dimly, he hears Joseph’s footfalls, retreating, then cursing.  Will pants, and pants, and pants. His fingers curl in the dead grass and scratch the icy earth.  He feels the grains of soil work their way up under his fingernails.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will finds himself shivering.  He cannot shake it. The more he thinks about it, the harder he seems to tremble, until his teeth are chattering.  The world dims around him. There is the sound of footsteps coming closer. He feels hands on his shoulders, bracing him.  Someone is talking, a meaningless chatter that he does not comprehend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, over it: “They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,” he hears.  Whoever it is is panicked; the voice grates, high in tone. The voice takes a deep breath and continues, more steadily this time.  “In a Sieve, they sailed so fast; with only a beautiful pea-green veil tied with a riband by way of a sail --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels how his breathing evens out, chest moving automatically as he mouths the words along with the voice.  The grip on his shoulders loosens a little; someone cups at the back of his neck. The warmth sinks in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Far and few, far and few are the lands where the Jumblies live.  Their heads are green, and their hands are blue . . .” Tom continues reciting until he gets to the end of the stanza.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s chest expands in an enormous shuddering gasp, and he wakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will,” Tom says, sounding much calmer.  “Will, are you with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m with you,” Will says, ragged.  He blinks at the darkness in front of his eyes as it resolves into clumps of weed and grainy mud.  He lurches out of the position he’s curled into and feels as someone grasps his webbing, carrying some of his weight, helping him sit up and turn until he can lean against -- it feels like the tree.   He feels his muscles protest violently at the movement. “I’m with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world is very bright.  It spins before resolving into something manageable.  Joseph is kneeling in front of him, bracing Will with hands on both shoulders.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will reaches up and fumbles with the top button of his tunic because although his breathing is easier, his chest still feels too tight.  His hands are trembling, though, and Joseph eventually does it for him. Will leans back against the tree, closing his eyes and breathing in as deeply and evenly as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will,” Joseph says carefully, quietly.  He is still kneeling in front of Will, his right hand on Will’s left shoulder.  “I think you’ve got shellshock. Maybe we should go to the Casualty Clearing Station --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Will says.  He can feel panic starting to swamp him again and fights it, fights to stay level, because this can’t be how it ends.  “No. Just let me -- just let me sit for a minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will has gone absolutely mad.  He’s totally lost it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really don’t think --” Joe starts to say, now deeply horrified, but Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>explodes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do none of you Blakes ever listen?” Will snarls.  “Sit the bloody hell down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>give me a minute,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Lieutenant!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe stares at Will, shocked into speechlessness.  Will is never confrontational, never going against his station.  Joseph can count on one hand the total number of times he has heard Will raise his voice to anyone in the platoon.  After a moment of indecision, Joseph lets go; he sits where he was kneeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will covers his face with his hands.  Joseph sees his lips moving. If Joseph were to make an educated guess, he would say it looks as though Will is reciting poetry with the way Will’s breathing falls into a more structured pattern.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over a long minute, Will’s breathing calms.  Joseph can see how the tension gradually seeps out of his shoulders.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will’s hands are steadier when he pulls them away from his face.  He doesn’t look at Joseph; he just looks out into the sky, as starkly as the wintry landscape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My original battalion was sent to Fromelles,” he says eventually, tone utterly dead.  “At the Somme. I don’t think they knew what they were doing, then. The 183rd Brigade was wiped out -- cut down to a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph feels his breath stop; he forces it to resume normally despite his shock.  A brigade is four battalions -- well over three thousand men. But Joseph was at the Somme, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what the reports stated about the casualties, but I’ve never seen so many ghosts.  Never.” Will’s voice goes hoarse at the last. “They didn’t know what had happened. They were so scared . . . I tried to help them.  I couldn’t not.” Will looks at his hands, now lying in his lap, as though he would dearly like to cry. He doesn’t. “The Sergeant reported me.  I was pulled out of my platoon and sent elsewhere. To ‘cure my cowardice.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph shifts, feeling uncomfortable.  “I am not calling you a coward,” he says, hesitant, because he isn’t, but --  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone else will,” his Sergeant says harshly.  And Joseph knows he is right.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph looks away.  He is torn on what to do.  He could go ahead and talk to the regiment’s Medical Officer -- but Joseph knows the Medical Officer has been replaced, recently; he has no connection to the new man.  And he hasn’t had occasion to talk with him, either. And -- and if what Schofield tells him is true, at least with regards to having gone through this before -- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- perhaps Joseph is simply not a good enough commander for his own men.  A true commander would not shy from the methods used, if it were for Schofield’s own good.  -- But it isn’t just Schofield, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will</span>
  </em>
  <span> --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” Will says in the middle of Joseph’s frantic argument with himself.  “About your brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It has been months since Tom died, but these words still have a physical impact.  They strike at Joseph in a way that makes him ache. But Will needs him to listen right now, so Joseph ruthlessly stamps the feeling down -- he can examine it later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants you to be able to see and hear him,” Will says flatly.  “He knows how I got it and he wants you to do the same thing. I do not think it is a good idea and I told him so.  That is what you overheard.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Try though he may, Joseph cannot name the feeling that listening to Will’s madness stirs.  “That’s enough, Will,” he interrupts roughly. “I don't want to hear about it.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, that is too harsh.  Joseph takes a deep breath. He takes another for good measure.  He can do this.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right,” Joseph says carefully.  He reaches out and touches Will for the first time since the fit, grasping his shoulder and giving it a squeeze.  “It’s been a rough couple of days Sergeant,” he says, compromising. “I think you just need a bit of rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is staring at him.  The high collar of his tunic and shirt almost hides the swallow that bobs down his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s an errand you can run for me, actually,” Joseph says.  He hears that his voice is strained with false cheer and hopes it is not so obvious to Will.  He needs Will to be a strong Sergeant, to keep his head in the right place to help lead the men when they head back to the front to advance the line.  “It’ll take you off the line for a day or two. You can get some hot food, a bite to eat that’s not tea-flavoured. It’ll help settle yourself, some. You can rejoin us up at the front after you’ve had a good rest, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Joseph thinks it is fine, that Will is going to listen to reason and take the out he is offering.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you understand?” Joseph asks.  And Joseph knows this isn’t the right solution but -- damn it, he can’t think of a better one right now and he is desperate.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he puts too much weight on it.  He sees the color draining from Will’s face; Will sucks in a breath and looks sharply away.  His mouth works a little as he searches for what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Sir,” he says finally.  “No, I -- I’m fine, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sergeant --” Joseph starts to say, using his most persuasive tone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Sir,” Will repeats forcefully, and looks up.  His jaw firms. “Thank you for listening to me, Sir.  I know you understand my fondness for . . . for fiction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph searches Will’s eyes.  There is nothing but determination in them.  If it weren’t for the bitterness that twists at his Sergeant’s mouth, Joseph would think everything was alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Joseph is angry.  He is angry that this man is using Tom’s death as an excuse.  That Schofield won’t keep it together and act as a Sergeant should.  That Will won’t trust Joseph, tell him what is actually wrong -- why Will feels he needs to play-act that Tom is still alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” he bites out, harsher than he intended.  “Fine; I won’t send you from the line. But you have to promise me you’ll keep this -- this ‘fiction’ of yours under control.  Got it?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then if you’ll excuse me,” Joseph says, standing.  “I have other business to attend to. As do you, I’m sure.”  He offers Will his hand to help him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deliberately, Will ignores it, pushing himself up slowly.  He stands straight and tall -- taller than Joseph -- and salutes stiffly.  “With your permission, Sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joseph nods sharply, not trusting himself to say anything more.  He is left alone to stare at the tree for a long moment. The only thing he can think is -- how can this possibly have gone so wrong?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 24th [late evening] - November 25th [morning]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The 23rd Brigade, and the 2nd Devons, relieves the 25th Brigade as expected during the night of November 23rd.  It is routine; they have held this position before. Will works automatically, settling the men of the platoon into their dugouts and cursing the mud up and down their section of the line.  Men swear at the previous occupants’ lack of tidiness and complain about the comforts they made weeks ago having disappeared -- all normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night of the 24th, they get the orders to advance the line in some small action with the 2nd West Yorks on their flank.  They are to march into No Man’s Land and establish new trenches on a ridge that will grant them 400 yard visibility in all directions.   They have no covering barrage with which to do it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom swears a bloody streak, instantly in an uproar.  Will, however, accepts this news with a strange peace.  Perhaps this is it; perhaps this is how it ends. This is his way of earning back some small measure of personal value that will counterbalance the pain of losing Joseph’s trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Lieutenant Blake is hurt, and hurt badly.  He does his best to hide it but for Will it is clear as day -- the sudden, stiff distance where there was an easy camaraderie; the way Lieutenant Blake insists on only addressing him as Sergeant Schofield, even when they are reasonably alone.  The intent way he watches Will when he thinks Will isn’t looking, scouring his every twitch and murmur and exhalation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In response -- Will is surprised by the depth of his own anger at Joseph.  The confrontation two days ago offered -- well, it was a relief; it was a tremendous release of pressure, of crushing anxiety.  It offered hope. 
 But, Will remembers cynically, hope is a dangerous thing.  The terrible hope Will had that he might gain some acceptance or understanding from Tom’s brother, whom he genuinely likes, is dying slowly.  And Will cannot help but feel resigned; without the weight of his fear crushing him down, he feels he is hardly touching anything at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So perhaps this is it.  This is his fate, and it is no better than he deserves, having cheated death so long.  Even if the Grim did do . . . whatever it did. Even if the Grim, apparently, wants him to live.  Well, what is the Grim, to stand against the machinations of man?  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will prepares for the action as he does every action -- he writes a note to Ellie, back home.  This time it is only a few dashed words, as they are not given as much forewarning about this attack as they sometimes are.  He dares brief looks at his photographs. And then he goes among the men, disseminating the orders in his usual fashion. Lance Corporal Farley no longer gives him as much of a challenge; now, Farley takes to setting Upton straight so fiercely Will never would have guessed the man once doubted him.  Linden and Oakes take to readying the men with quiet professionalism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given the short time between receiving the orders and executing them, Tom is not able to scout ahead.  Will is almost glad for this. He still can’t bring himself to look at the ghost, let alone talk to him.  It is an icy insulation from how blindingly painful the moment of realising Tom allowed him up to be discovered is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This doesn’t stop Tom from frantically pleading with him to listen, to talk, to acknowledge.  To wait until Tom can get information. Will blocks it all out -- he simply cannot spare the energy.  If he dies, they’ll have plenty of time to hash it out when his ghost emerges. There’s no promise of rain, after all.  (And then Will can really land a good one on him -- )</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will gathers with the others.  It will be a bit of a scramble.  It is midnight, and it is not as bright as it could be, but the moon is still just over half-full and casts more than enough light to illuminate the landscape for any Huns.  They will certainly have to advance across No Man’s Land, set up on the ridge, and dig in, all whilst under enemy fire.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The signal is given.  They go up and over the trenches and make for the ridge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is eerily quiet to Will.  Even as the enemy’s guns start up, it all sounds muted.  There is nothing but a gaping void where his emotions should be.  He encourages the men as though in a dream, leading from the front, going straight for their objective.  He is one of the first to reach it and pull out his trench-tool, setting the example for 5th Platoon. They find him and dig frantically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shells whistle.  Tom cries in his ear.  Will does not even stop to think before wrapping Tom around his throat like a scarf, winding him into the folds tucked under his tunic.  If Will dies, he dies, and he may be glad of it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoops up the ghosts of the men who do die around him.  The trenches take shape. The men of his Platoon bury themselves in the ground like spring bulbs, set to plant in winter so they can flower in spring.  Fear lends strength to a man.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at the end of it -- he finds himself, shockingly, alive.  He does not know how many they have lost. Will comes back to himself a little and takes count.  Some of the dead are starting to waft towards him, already; these he sets into the seams of his tunic.  Some, he finds, he gathered in the assault. They are lining his pockets and shining his buttons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom, clearly unhappy, remains pulsing in his scarf.  Will ignores him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he has accounted for both the men huddled in the makeshift ditch with him and Lieutenant Blake, and counted out the ghosts, Will winces to find that there are three missing --  Privates Faye, Sanderson, and Rose. If they are casualties . . . he hopes they can crawl back to the line. They can certainly do nothing for them here.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And after he disperses orders and exhausts himself fortifying the newly-created trenches through the long, early-morning hours, Will finds himself huddled in the lee, leaning against the trench wall.  He has ordered that the wounded are kept in the two dugouts they have managed to scrape out, an order that Joseph did not countermand. Thinking of it, Will turns toward  Lieutenant Blake -- he sees the man look away from him quickly, as though he is ashamed to be caught.  It is another blow whose pain Will can only accept in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men around him are weary and still in sleep as the sun begins to rise, late in the morning.  Will feels himself shaking, slightly, and feels the stinging chill of wet down his cheeks; he wipes his face furiously and takes a great breath.  He is still alive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More’s the pity it is so.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 30th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom is still reeling with how horribly everything turned out.  He thought -- well, whatever he thought, he didn’t imagine -- somehow, nothing turned out right.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that they really could, but -- Will hasn’t spoken to him since the encounter with Joe.  And yes -- for nearly a week, they were trapped in trenches that are newly-dug and crammed tight with soldiers in and out of each other’s space every minute of every day and there was absolutely no privacy whatsoever -- but Will hasn’t looked at Tom, either, or acknowledged his presence in the slightest besides listening to </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody common sense.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He won’t respond whenever Tom says anything, no matter how many times Tom apologises and tries to explain, and he just gets stiffer and stiffer and more upset whenever Tom talks, so Tom has stopped trying besides anything that will keep Will alive.  Tom doesn’t know how to make this better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom gives Will his space and follows Joe around, instead, even though </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody hell,</span>
  </em>
  <span> is he ever angry with his older brother right now.  Tom needs to know what Joe is thinking. Joe did insinuate he thought Will was going mad -- and Tom understands, he does, but also it’s Will, and when has Will ever given Joe cause to question him?  The thought makes Tom’s temper flare all over again before it drains away and leaves him feeling awful over the whole thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He happens to be shadowing Joe when his brother goes to Major Hepburn as the 23rd Brigade is relieved from the line by the 25th.  When Joe manages to maneuver himself into a (relatively) private conversation, Tom is instantly alerted. He moves in close to listen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you have a moment to speak, Sir?  Er, privately?” Joe begins with. The Major raises an eyebrow but does not appear to be all that surprised; Tom supposes that’s because he must get several such requests every day in the battalion, even if it is rare that a Lieutenant would go to the Major before approaching his Captain first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.  What is on your mind?” Major Hepburn asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Sir,” Joe starts, then hesitates -- just briefly, but it’s there.  “It’s about my Sergeant.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sergeant Schofield?  What is the trouble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I . . . Sir, do you remember  that conversation we had back when he joined the 2nd?  You told me he was a man of ‘hidden talents’ . . .” Joe stops; when he continues, he is obviously choosing his words with care.  “Did you mean anything in particular by that, Sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Major Hepburn is frowning, now.  “I’m not sure I understand what you are asking, Lieutenant,” he replies.  “By your tone, it seems that something is wrong. Is there something I should be made aware of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No Sir, that’s not it at all, Sir --” Joe is backtracking too fast, and he knows it.  He stops and reigns it in. “It just seemed a cryptic remark at the time, Sir. I was wondering if you could elaborate on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom can’t quite read the Major’s assessing look.  “Well, Lieutenant,” he says slowly. “I merely meant that he is a man of many skills, and that however unorthodox they may seem, they are quite necessary.  At the time, I knew it was unusual to promote him so far up. Still, with his resourcefulness and nerve, he accomplished feats both Mackenzie and I have rarely seen on the battlefield.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe nods seriously.  In his distress, some of the conflict he is feeling shows clearly on his face.  It makes Tom feel sick.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Major notices.  “Lieutenant, is there something I should be made aware of?” he repeats, but this time it is clearly an order, with the implication of </span>
  <em>
    <span>can you explain what is going on?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Tom breathes, and then more loudly: “No, don’t you dare.  Don’t you dare, Joe. If you rat him out -- you didn’t see him during the attack, this would kill him!  You don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>what it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>like--”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No Sir.  It’s nothing, Sir,” Joe says abruptly.  “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom lets out the breath he was holding in with a whoosh.  Hepburn nods, accepting the end of the conversation gracefully -- but, Tom notes, he does study Joe for a time after that.  Nevertheless, the Major does not press the issue any further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe looks resolute; he has made up his mind, Tom thinks, not to report Will.  Nevertheless, Tom still feels the jangle of nerves. Joe hasn’t told Hepburn, but -- what if he never believes Will?  What then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Tom did see Will during the attack.  He saw his friend walking into it expecting -- hoping, even -- to die.  And Tom could do  <em>nothing.
  </em></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, it has gone wrong.  It has all gone so wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>December 5th</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finally gets the summons to see Major Hepburn in Hepburn’s quarters, Will can’t say it is unexpected.  He thinks, numbly, that it was only a matter of time. That it won’t be a public affair in Headquarters is a slight comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can’t be that bad, Will,” Tom says, but even he sounds uncertain -- subdued.  Will doesn’t blame him; he can’t even bring himself to be angry with Tom right now, either.  “He didn’t actually say anything to Hepburn when he went in there. This must be about something else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will shakes his head, mute.  It can’t be a coincidence. It has been nearly two weeks -- two awful, hopeless weeks -- since the argument and Joseph has been avoiding him ever since.  Even though they are now finally off the line and in Wizernes, the Lieutenant has contrived to constantly be elsewhere, managing to keep from being in the same vicinity for long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each step Will takes feels like the last.  The Orderlies wave him into the Major’s quarters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Will is thrown off balance.  Colonel Mackenzie is there and very dead -- there is a humongous, jagged hole in his chest, ruining his normally pristine presentation.  He is examining with great interest a stack of paper reports heaped on a table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Belatedly, Will sees Hepburn standing next to the Colonel, holding a glass of . . . something.  Will salutes stiffly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanted to see me, Sir?” he asks with great difficulty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Sergeant.  Join me, please,” Hepburn says, and motions towards one of the chairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t look like much, does he?” Mackenzie says from his side of the table.  He’s watching Will, now. Will supposes Mackenzie and Hepburn have worked together long enough that it is entirely possible Mackenzie defaulted to following Hepburn around.  Will isn’t certain he’s up to taking the Colonel with him right now, but --</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-- “Here, lad,” Hepburn says, and holds out the glass.  It is clearly some sort of liquor, though Will can’t tell immediately with it not in the bottle.  He takes it uncomprehendingly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn waits politely.  Will stares at him, certain he’s missing something.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mackenzie harrumphs.  “Not too bright, is he, either?” he says.  Tom makes an indignant noise, but smothers it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit, please,” the Major prompts, gently.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.  Sorry, Sir,” Will says, disconcerted.  He sits gingerly in one seat; Major Hepburn takes the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Sergeant Schofield,” Hepburn says.  He pours himself some of whatever is in the decanter next to him and takes a sip.  Following the cue, Will also takes a sip; it is whiskey, the taste strangely smokey.  It burns unpleasantly all the way down his throat. “You must pardon the wait. I intended to have this conversation with you a week ago, but circumstances arose that led to certain urgent matters I needed to attend to first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Sir.”  Will takes another sip to distract both himself and the Major from the possibility that his hands are shaking.  Lieutenant Blake had gone to see Hepburn a week ago -- this is definitely not a coincidence. “Is everything all right, Sir?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t toy with him, Adrian,” Colonel Mackenzie says from where he is standing.  “The man is scared out of his mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will really hopes Mackenzie isn’t planning on keeping a running commentary throughout the conversation -- it is grating on his nerves fiercely, but Will doesn’t dare take the man’s ghost right now.  If he is going to make it through this, he needs to appear credibly sane, and he can scarcely think straight as it is -- he can’t possibly contrive a plausible coincidence right now.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do see that, Edmund, yes,” Major Hepburn replies calmly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Caught up as he is in thinking of how to prevent Mackenzie’s ghost from commentating on this meeting, this makes absolutely no sense to Will.  “I’m sorry, Sir -- what?” he asks blankly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn looks him over with a frown.  He points to Will’s glass. “Drink that first -- that’s an order, Sergeant.”  He looks at Mackenzie and says, very firmly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will is frozen.  He looks at Mackenzie, who gives Will the same look he gave all those months ago when he told Will to fuck off.  Will then looks at Major Hepburn, who is watching him patiently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er,” Tom says very quietly in Will’s ear.  “D’you think they’re having a go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are not, Corporal,” Hepburn says.  Will catches a glimpse of Tom’s face: he looks completely gobsmacked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will drains the glass, totally nerveless.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I was saying,” Major Hepburn continues once Will is finished, “I’ve been somewhat remiss in my duty to you.  I assumed you knew what you were doing and needed no direction on my part; you have certainly made my job much easier over the past eight months.  But it did not occur to me that you did not know your transfer here was permanent -- in the sense that neither I nor Mackenzie would brook interference in your position.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will opens his mouth, and closes it again.  He is at a complete loss; he hasn’t the slightest idea what is going on, and Will doesn’t dare to hope that he is out of danger yet.  Hepburn motions for him to hold out his glass, and pours more whiskey into it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Will says inanely, because that’s the only comprehensible thing he can think to do.  Then he finds his tongue. “Er. Sorry, Sir -- my position?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Hepburn says.  “Your position as the deadman.  It is a hallowed duty in our profession, but not one that is necessarily well-known outside the cloister of military tradition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And they call it deadman,” Tom mumbles, disbelieving.  “That’s a horrid name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will has the great sense that he is in a dream.  Maybe this is a nightmare? He can’t remember ever having such vivid nightmares where he is sitting and chatting with his officers, but the sense of impending doom is </span>
  <em>
    <span>precisely</span>
  </em>
  <span> the same.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can see ghosts,” he interrupts, not making it a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can indeed,” says Hepburn.  He nods to Tom, and then to Mackenzie.  Then he looks at Will. “Just as you can, Sergeant.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Will says, blankly.  He blinks. “And I’m not being transferred to the Front?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, lad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods sharply.  “Sorry Sir, you’ll have to give me a moment,” he says, hearing his voice crack.  He sets the glass on the table and puts his head between his knees. He squeezes both hands in his hair as though the pressure will somehow coax his brain into working again and takes a few deep breaths.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dramatic fellow, isn’t he?” he hears Mackenzie murmur.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s had a rough go of it.  Let him have his moment,” the Major murmurs back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.  He can do this.  Will straightens abruptly, stretching himself to sit as far to his full height as he can manage, focusing on the ceiling until he is certain he is under control.  Calmly, he picks the glass back up. “Thank you Sir,” he says as neutrally as he can, making sure to look the Major in the eye. “I believe we were discussing being the . . . being the deadman.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn gives him an approving nod and picks up where he left off.  “The deadman was -- though I would argue, still is -- an essential part of every regiment,” he says soberly.  “You are needed to ensure that the souls of those soldiers who die in battle are properly escorted on -- a guarantee that we bring every man back home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels the words sink deep, deep between his ribs and into the beating of his heart.  He does this already, but he never had the language with which to frame it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is an old tradition, very old -- it goes back as far as the 1600s as far as I am aware,” Hepburn says, somewhat more thoughtfully.  “But -- well.” His tone becomes grim. “I have acted as the deadman for this battalion all throughout the war -- and for many other regiments before now.  But this war far outstripped my own capacity, and the capacity of our military leadership. We have lost many of those who know of this tradition, let alone have the ability to perform it.  I am the one who persuaded Mackenzie to transfer you to this battalion for the express purpose of easing some of my burden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will feels remarkably composed.  He thinks the effects of the whiskey have finally set in -- the piercing cut of his fear and the sharpness of his anxiety have started to fade considerably.  He feels he has a certain level of detachment, the kind that he has learned is necessary in the face of overwhelming terror. “How did you know that I could do this, Sir?” he asks, with relative calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thomas Blake, of course,” the Major says simply.  He nods at Tom. “I had my suspicions when you echoed his questions outside the dugout at Croisilles -- but you are remarkably close-mouthed.  I only confirmed my suspicions when I inquired about your military service and found the note in your records about your transfer to the front -- your Sergeant reported you as having gone mad, suffering from delusions of speaking to the dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~ * ~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom is still stunned by the turn this conversation has taken.  He watches as Will swallows and looks down at his lap. The hand that isn’t holding the cup is fisted tightly into the material of his trousers.  “I see, Sir,” he says, tonelessly. He is the very picture of despondent shame doing his best not to dwell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mackenzie coughs politely.  He looks at Hepburn as though saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>can we move it along, please?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“But that is something I shall discuss with you at a later time,” Hepburn says, still with that gentle, paternalistic tone.  Tom is not sure he trusts it, but -- well, it’s not obviously a trap, he supposes. Hepburn continues more briskly with, “I imagine you are wondering what has prompted such a frank discussion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will starts to say something and pauses.  He clears his throat. “Sir, I assumed it was due to Lieutenant Blake’s conversation with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn considers this and nods.  “Of course,” he says, sounding mildly surprised -- but it seems to be directed at himself, not at Will.  He nods thoughtfully and acknowledges Tom. “I remember seeing you there, Corporal, but I did not quite make the connection.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Sir,” Tom says, at a loss.  Shit -- he didn’t salute when he entered.  Should he salute now? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant Blake’s coming to me was an imperative, yes.  I deduced on some level that he had learned, somehow, of what you could do, and was unsure of what to do about it.  But . . .” Hepburn trails off, leans back. He looks at Mackenzie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will looks at Mackenzie, and he seems to have regained his composure entirely.  He has the same politely-distanced, competent mien he has been encouraged to use when it comes to matters in the military.  He is able to look at Mackenzie assessingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re asking about how Blake is still around, I can’t help you, Sir,” he says.  He looks at Tom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time Will has met his eyes directly since their argument after Will’s fit.  Tom feels the breath knocked out of him; he has forgotten how effortlessly Will can just . . . pin him in place, with a glance, with that unearthly stare.  He feels a compulsion to answer and isn’t sure if it is social pressure or something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his peripheral vision, Tom can see Mackenzie and Hepburn exchange looks.  If he weren’t frozen to the spot, meeting Will’s gaze, he might even have been able to diagnose their expressions.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you,” he says, shaken, and then rallies.  “I told you I’d be damned if I left you here alone -- not while you were still stuck in this mess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will just looks at him.  In it, Tom sees some level of understanding, but he also sees all the unspoken accusation: the lingering hurt over being tricked into revealing what he can do to Joe; the betrayal and loss of trust.  But Tom can’t look away, so he thinks of all his reasons for his choices: his fear at being useless, at being forgotten; his worry for his brother. His terror at losing Will’s presence, when the loss of it means Tom loses himself.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Will sees some of that.  He lets Tom go, at any rate.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has not left to go with the Grim since April,” Will says, words pulled from him with reluctance.  “I do not understand why. They have met several times since then.” Tom glares at him, but Will is looking at Hepburn, now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A choice, perhaps,” Hepburn muses.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or an imperative,” Mackenzie says to him.  “You don’t really need my help, after all; you should’ve been promoted years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what it will be like for you,” Will tells Mackenzie directly.  His mouth twists unconsciously before he smooths it out with some effort. “I am not sure I recommend it -- staying, that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I recommend it,” Tom interrupts without thinking.  He nods to Hepburn. “If you’re around him, you can still do something at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mackenzie gives him a very skeptical look.  “And what exactly do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> do?” he asks.  “We can’t physically interact with anything; don’t tell me you’ve somehow the ability to protect him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stung, Tom opens his mouth to argue and says the first thing that comes to mind.  “I look out for Will alright,” he says, a little fiercely, except -- no, he doesn’t.  Tom shoots a glance at Will and sees Will carefully directing his gaze at the floor, and Tom thinks that actually, he hasn’t been looking out for Will very well at all, recently.  And that is really a private matter, and none of Mackenzie’s business. Tom rallies again and continues. “And I’ve been scouting out the battlefields before the advances -- back in Ypres, I could tell him where the pill-boxes were and what the state of the wire was like.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will looks like he’s going to start saying something; Tom cuts him off.  “And remember Écoust?” he demands, getting worked up now because for goodness’ sake, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tom did help.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “You were bloody concussed as hell.  You could barely walk! But I kept lookout for you all the way through, and we got out alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hepburn coughs politely.  “I see we’ve touched on an old argument,” he says, recalling Tom to the task at hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will says, quietly, “He has saved my life more than once.  And he has been a good friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, this hits Tom harder than anything up until now.  He blinks fiercely at the stinging in his eyes and looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Hepburn says after a moment.  “You’ve given us a lot to think about; you’ve both been very helpful in this regard, Sergeant, Lance Corporal.  Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom looks back to see Will nod, a little stiff.  “Our pleasure,” Tom says for him, because that’s the polite response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One last matter before you go, though,” the Major says, becoming more businesslike.  “Do you need us to intervene with Lieutenant Blake on your behalf, Sergeant?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprised, Tom and Will exchange a look.  In it, Will asks the same question of Tom.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tom thinks about the way Joe held back in the end, not exactly answering Hepburn.  Joe could have reported Will, but he didn’t; and though he has been avoiding Will, Tom knows what Joe looks like when he’s wrestling with something he isn’t sure he wants.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he still just needs some time,” Tom says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will nods.  His look turns distant for a moment before he turns to Major Hepburn. “I think we can handle it for now, Sir,” Will says slowly.  “Though I will let you know if the situation doesn’t resolve itself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” Hepburn says, and stands.  Will stands as well. “I’ll leave you to it.  Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sergeant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” Will says, and salutes.  He nods to Mackenzie and together, he and Tom leave the quarters.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Before I begin, shoutout to @constantbellpepper who asked me literALLY THE DAY I CAME UP WITH THE DEADMAN IDEA if we had a name for Will’s role!  I’m sorry, friend, but I had to lie to you -- I didn’t want you to be spoiled for this big reveal!</p><p>This chapter was the most difficult to write in many ways -- drawing on memories of anxiety attacks and mood swings was really rough, and so was figuring out where and when to set this!  I don’t know how I could have gotten through it without Pavuvu’s tireless support, encouragement, and willingness to let me call her at very late hours to rant about character development; you, my dear, are literally my rock.</p><p>Thank you also to the fantastic Longfic Lads: WafflesRisa, LadyCharity, and scientistsinistral, each of you has helped me through this whole week in a myriad of ways!  From your love and support, our sessions discussing the movie and the characters, and from your practical suggestions (seriously that writer bot is the BEST THING EVER), each of you has contributed in no small part to this chapter being completed.</p><p>The next chapter is an interlude -- it should be up within the week.  Look also for another standalone work, a companion piece to Cornerstone.  And THEN . . . the thrilling conclusion!</p><p>In the mean time, if you need more to read, you should check out the post-war life of Schofield and his family in LadyCharity and scientistsinistral’s series “there and back again.”  If you’d prefer to see Schofield getting all the whump!tastic moments and what I’m offering isn’t even enough for you, check out WafflesRisa’s “Pick A Man. Bring Your Kit” -- it just updated, too!  Between the three of them, they’ve got over 50k words of wonder and delight to tide you over until we update here again &lt;3</p><p>If you've any questions or want to scream at us, feel free to do so in the comments below!  We are also, as ever, @marbat (Pavuvu) and @lizofalltrades (Ealasaid) on tumblr.</p><p>Historical Notes:</p><p>1.  Was the British Army really hit so badly as Major Hepburn claims?<br/>At the outset of the war, Britain had two armies: the British Expeditionary Force (247,000 men) who were the regular -- professional -- army and also stationed abroad (because Empire) and the Territorial Force (240,000) which was mostly used for home defense.  By the end of 1914, almost the entirety of the BEF was wiped out from the first year of the war.  A call was put out for volunteers -- 2.5 million men volunteered in 1915.  By 1916 (after the Somme) conscription was put into effect because volunteer rates had plummeted; by the end of hostilities, 2.3 million more men had been conscripted into the army.  (Fun fact: conscription only applied to unmarried men, and married men could not be called upon until unmarried men reserves were exhausted.  If Schofield hadn’t volunteered, he likely wouldn’t be fighting at all.)</p><p>2.  How true are the locations and events of this chapter?  Would they really have gone to these places and seen this stuff?<br/>As stated last chapter, all locations where they are stationed, dates they are rotated onto the line, and action/activity they face are as accurate as I can make them.  The 8th Division did travel through the miles of mud to get back to the front after being sent to Ploegsteert to recuperate.  The only things fictionalised are the characters.  --But yes; the 2nd Devons’ colonel was killed in action on December 2nd, so . . . :(</p><p>3.  There is a LOT of alcohol mentioned in this chapter.  Why??<br/>Read this fantastic article on alcohol in WWI:  https://www.diffordsguide.com/encyclopedia/475/bws/booze-in-wwi.  See also: the two bottles of whiskey I consumed just getting this chapter down on paper.</p><p>4.  Why was Joe so reluctant to send Schofield in for medical treatment for shellshock (PTSD)?<br/>Shellshock treatment was barbaric.  Frequent treatments that were recommended (and applied) by Medical Officers included physical beatings, peer pressure, shame/humiliation, and often transferral into a new unit, particularly at the beginning of the war.  By the end of the war, transferring your men to new units was not as favored an option as it was at the beginning, but some officers still believed that it could spread like a regular disease, and would sometimes force soldiers into other units in the belief they were preventing the rest of the men from getting it.  It was also believed to be directly linked to one’s moral character; soldiers who were showing symptoms were seen as men who could not overcome their innate cowardice.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Interlude III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Correspondence of Lieutenant Joseph Andrew Blake, December, 1917.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>[Joseph’s fifth attempt.]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>December 2, 1917</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dear Father,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cannot believe what has happened.  I cannot fathom how circumstances should have ended up as they have.  I do not know what to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you first began to teach me the basics of leading men, you impressed upon me the importance of trust.  --Of loyalty, and how one can bridge gaps between dissimilar men to create a shared foundation. You even spoke of friendship, and how it can come from unexpected places and defy societal conventions.  You counseled not to shy away from embracing it, and having seen the companionship between you and Uncle Jonathan throughout my life, I felt I understood the gift such a bond offers. </span>
  <strike>
    <span>Perhaps this is where I went wrong; perhaps I didn’t extend myself as I should have.</span>
    <span></span>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <span>I find myself reflecting on these lessons now, more than ever, but I find they are of little help in the situation I now find myself in.  How does one overcome trust so shattered it seems impossible to mend? How does one manage feeling that friendship splinter and crack until it threatens to dissolve?  This is not something you taught me. It is not something I have been able to learn before now, either, but I desperately wish I knew. Will is a man of character. I earned his trust, and he earned mine, but it seems he is not as he appeared to be -- and now it is all a wreck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a great rift.  I do not know how to bridge it.  To do so would require belief in something so absurd, so impossible, it verges on madness.  But I have never met a man so solidly situated in the present!  I do not understand it.  I do not understand how we can both so grievously hurt one another over -- over -- fiction.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was insanely brave in this last action.  He was the first over the top and the first to reach our objective.  He set about our task with an assurance that was born from a complete lack of fear, the lack one only gains when one has come to expect death.  I do not understand why our rift would drive him to something as insane as walking towards battle as though he expects to die.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does it matter this much?  I have many friends. I have had many friends die and many of them live.  My friendship with them has not been tested like this one is, now. Why does one man matter so much to me?  What qualities does he possess that I wish to cultivate his friendship? Is this some flaw of my own character, that I cannot look past this -- that I cannot accept this?  That I chose this in the first place?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>William Schofield loved Tom -- I know that with certainty.  Even now he still grieves for Tom, though he hides it deeply.  He also loves the men of our platoon. He cares that their comforts are met; he cares that they are encouraged to be better men than they feel they may be.  He knows all of them -- their names, their families, their likes and dislikes. He stresses finding the best solution in leading them, as opposed to simply ordering them about.  Everard was a competent soldier, but he was never like this. I have not seen the likes of it before.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is not a man bred and trained to lead.  He does not know the calculations of choosing which men are most expendable.  But he treats each order into action with more thought and consideration -- more gravity for the lives of the men -- than many of the officers I have seen around me.  Somehow he is still able to extend such care in this war.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a man I could call my friend.  This is a man I would willingly die beside.  This is a man I would absolutely invite over, and damn Mother’s opinion on the matter!  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But . . . I cannot. </span>
  
  <strike>
    <span>I simply cannot accept that what he says about -- about himself -- about Tom still --</span>
  </strike>
  <span> I cannot accept this.  It is impossible. It cannot be more than a fiction.  But why would he lie to me, Father? Why would he take this trust and shatter it so?  </span>
  <strike>
    <span>Why would he tell me my brother haunted him -- and not metaphorically, but quite literally!  Why would he jest with something so cruel? Tom is dead. Tom is dead and gone and it hurts to think about, to speak about, but it is the truth.  Tom is gone.</span>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <span>But it isn’t even that he lacks conviction, he believes in what he says.  He was reluctant to tell me and I truthfully only discovered it by accident.  The circumstances were such that I have no cause to doubt his word but -- it </span>
    <em>
      <span>cannot be true.</span>
    </em>
    
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <span>If it were . . .  If it were, how on earth can he possibly keep it up?  How can he possibly remain so -- he is detached in some ways, but the care and consideration -- no.  No, this is madness.</span>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <span>I wish I had not gone back to help him when he lost himself in that fit.  Or -- no, I did what was right. I wish we had met in different circumstances.  Or -- no, that isn’t right either. Perhaps I simply wish we had never met at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[This attempt is not completed and unsent; it is ripped up and thrown away shortly after Joseph gives it up as a bad job.]</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Have a tasty, tasty interlude, darling readers!  Shoutout to Ifis, who nailed what this chapter would be about in their review.  Pavuvu and I remain in awe of your take on our work!</p><p>The last chapter is coming soon.  If it's not completed by Monday, I will be genuinely surprised!  </p><p>In the meantime, check out scientistsinistral's latest work: "true lover's knot."  It is beautiful and wonderful and absolutely pure gold, and rereading it makes my heart ache in the BEST WAY.  (Onward, Longfic Lads! to new and greater heights!)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. December 5th - 6th, 1917</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dy4HA3vUv2c">Mood music~ </a>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> December 5th [evening] - December 6th [early morning] </em>
</p><p>Joseph looks blankly at the paper before him.  He can find the formal words -- he can write them with ease -- but somehow, it seems so insignificant.  They do not encapsulate the worth of each man’s sacrifice.  </p><p>He has secluded himself in the room he is to share with Lieutenant Graham, whenever Graham turns up; the current money is on whether Graham got sidetracked on the way back from the front through a brothel or on whether he had been evacuated as a casualty with no one the wiser.  Joseph has the room to himself. It should help -- but it does not.</p><p>He supposes he may as well get on with it, though.  He begins:</p><p>
  <em> Dear Mrs Martin, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I am deeply grieved to write this letter as it will bring you news I know you shall not wish to hear about your son, Private Alex F. Martin. </em>
</p><p>There are a pile of identification tags on the desk.  They have lost six men -- that he knows of; there are still three no one has tracked down -- and each seems somehow both more and less precious than gold.  Each is the last mark of the man who wore it.</p><p><em> He played a very gallant part in some action against the Germans on November 24th, </em> Joseph writes painstakingly.  He hopes the censors do not see fit to blacken it out -- Martin’s family deserves to know this much. <em>   As he was assisting in establishing shelter for our troops, he was struck by some shrapnel.  He died shortly thereafter. </em></p><p>Joseph has only just begun this one letter.  He despairs of writing the others, although he knows he can simply copy the same words out.  They are the appropriate words. The format is suitable. But this does not mitigate how glaringly inadequate it all seems.</p><p><em> His death has been taken as a personal blow by us all, </em> he adds, and runs out of things to say.</p><p>
  <span>He leans back with a sigh and runs his hands through his hair, forgetting the pen he still holds, and splotches ink all down his face.  Joseph lets out the most blistering curse he can think of and dearly wishes for a drink, but he has run out of his personal store and has not yet replaced it.  He could go to the officers' club, but most officers leave these sorts of things for the chaplains to write — so while they would not comment on him choosing to do them himself, Joseph knows they would not exactly be the most welcoming group were he to attempt writing these in the club.</span>
</p><p>There is a quiet knock on the door -- Joseph starts and twists -- it opens.  Will -- Schofield -- comes in without permission, closing the door with a quiet snick.  Joseph is so surprised he doesn’t even react until after Schofield precisely sets down the bottle of brandy Joseph gave him (compliments of Father) all those months ago down on the table with scarcely a sound and settles on sitting on Lieutenant Graham’s trunk after looking about for a seat.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Joseph asks.  The reminder that his father regards this man highly makes him uneasy; he tries not to think about how his voice is less strong than he’d like it to be.  And then, inanely -- “Graham won’t be too pleased if he comes in and finds you like that.”</p><p>“Graham is dead,” says Schofield.  There isn’t any significant inflection nor weight in it.  It is simply a fact to him.</p><p>Joseph stares, unsettled by the certainty.  He wonders -- has Schofield seen the man’s ghost?  No. No, he is not falling prey to the same madness.  He wonders instead when Schofield found that out; he supposes the news could have come in while Joseph wasn’t around -- or perhaps it is just a rumor? </p><p>Schofield nods at the bottle.  It is half-full, still; Joseph is honestly surprised it isn’t entirely gone.  “Pour yourself something before you fall over.”</p><p>Joseph finds that he simply does not know what to do with that.  Half of him is filled with some sort of -- some sort of awful, burning hope.  Schofield wouldn’t come to him unless he were here to straighten things out with Joseph; he wouldn’t come here unless he was here to apologize for his silence and help take up the burden of leading the platoon as someone who isn’t shellshocked to hell.  Will being the person Joseph knows he could trust, again.</p><p>But Joseph does not think it is that.  He studies Schofield, and utilizes all of the lessons he has learned over the years from Mother.  Schofield is drunk, he sees immediately; he is staring fixedly at the wall, but in a glazed sort of way.  Now that Joseph thinks of it, he can smell Scotch. Something nice, too. And Schofield appears to be -- relieved.  His posture is relaxed, or as relaxed as it can be; more relaxed than he ought to be, considering the last time they really spoke Joseph attempted to send him from the line for shellshock.</p><p>Schofield’s gaze shifts abruptly, meeting Joseph’s look.  Joseph revises his estimation -- no drunken man could be that intent on anyone, ever.  Probably only tipsy, then.  </p><p>“Why are you here?” Joseph asks baldly.  </p><p>Schofield sighs.  He gets up and casts around for a moment, before sighting the unwashed tin mug Joseph left sitting on the ground by his bed.  He picks it up (he does sway very slightly -- so maybe a little more than tipsy), squints into it, and blows any dust out of it before plunking it down on the table before Joseph and pouring him a tot.</p><p>“This is what Hepburn did for me, if you’re wondering,” Schofield says, sounding a little cross.  “I think he did it just to fuck with me.”</p><p>“Or to settle your nerves,” Joseph replies automatically as Schofield takes a seat again.  Because that was what alcohol was for, honestly. Why else would one bother with it?</p><p>But then he processes what Schofield actually said.  Hepburn -- called him in for a drink? That’d explain the Scotch, certainly.  But why would Hepburn call him in? Unless -- are they sending him from 5th Platoon?  Joseph feels a flare of panic. Is it his fault? He didn’t report Schofield for anything, in the end.  It just didn’t feel right. But if that was enough to tip Hepburn off --</p><p>“You aren’t -- “ he starts, heatedly, but Schofield cuts him off, sharply shaking his head.  </p><p>“No, I’m not being transferred,” he says, and stops.  Schofield seems to turn inward for a moment and Joseph watches, surprised, as even more tension bleeds out of him.  He puts his head in his hands and says to the ground again, as if in wonder, “I’m not being transferred.”</p><p>Joseph, seeing his shoulders start to tremble, has absolutely no idea what to do about this.  He would <em> like </em> to go over and offer -- something -- but he can’t.  There’s too much between them now.</p><p>But Schofield sorts himself out.  He sits up with a sharp exhale. If Joseph didn’t know any better, he would not have noticed the slight reddening around the Sergeant’s eyes. </p><p>“That’s not what I’m here for,” Schofield says, tone brisk and businesslike.  “I’m here because I thought now was about the time you’d be writing letters.”</p><p>Joseph bites his tongue, sobering.  This is not what he’d like to talk about.  It is not a pleasant task and not one he wants to do with an audience.</p><p>“I am,” he responds shortly.</p><p>“Good,” Schofield says.  “Then I made it in time. Whose are you writing now?”</p><p>Joseph finds the name written at the top of the letter in front of him.  “Martin,” he says, reluctantly.</p><p>Schofield nods.  “He was on the football team,” he says slowly, “and he was very proud of it, since his father played for the local team for a while.”</p><p>Joseph looks down at the letter.  This slots neatly where he left off.  But -- </p><p>“Did you leave these for the chaplain?” he asks abruptly.  “After Ypres?”</p><p>Schofield is silent for a long moment.  “No,” he says eventually. “I wrote them myself.”</p><p>Joseph hears the same muted grief and restrained resignation in Schofield’s voice -- he is speaking the truth.  Joseph feels something inside him give, just a little.</p><p>“There’s another cup in Graham’s things,” he says quietly.  Then, he picks up the pen and starts writing again.  </p><p>Schofield silently locates the cup.  He pours out another tot; Joseph pauses and holds up his glass in a wordless salute that Schofield returns.</p><p>“Is there anything else?” Joseph asks when he finishes adding to the letter.</p><p>“He wants his mother to know he loves her.”</p><p>Joseph pauses, begins to put his pen down.  “Sergeant,” he starts, wearily.</p><p>Schofield does that thing, that really annoying thing, where he looks Joseph dead in the eye and pins him in place.  There is no arguing with this man at this moment. Joseph . . . feels he should try -- but he does not want to.  He is very tired of fighting Will.  </p><p>Joseph sighs.  “Fine,” he says, adding the last line to the letter with a grim determination.  “Anything else?”</p><p>“Not for him, no.” </p><p>They go through the heap of identification disks like this.  Schofield tells him what to add to each letter and Joseph writes it down.  He rationalises it as -- at least it’s better than bare formality. At least it is something that shows these men have some worth.  And after the third letter, it just becomes a routine -- Joseph hardly considers by what means Schofield has got these answers.  Between the two of them, they finish the letters and most of the brandy within an hour and a half.  </p><p>At this point, Schofield is outright lying on Graham’s bed.  Joseph should feel worse about it, but this is the most comfortable he’s felt in weeks.  If he ignores the fact that Schofield is delusional, he can appreciate the company. It makes an unpleasantly depressing task easier.</p><p>He sets the last letter aside.  Forgetting himself, he runs his hands through his hair again.  Mother worked hard to break him of the habit, but in this environment, Joseph frankly could <em> not </em> care less.  </p><p>“Right,” Schofield says from the bed.</p><p>Joseph sees that Schofield has his right arm over his eyes.  His left hand is grasping at his right wrist tightly enough the fingers are white about the knuckles, pressing it in as though to alleviate some horrible pressure.     </p><p>“This is what it’s like,” his Sergeant continues.  Somehow he has the tone of fond weariness that any good Sergeant should use, the one that sets the men at ease.  (Joseph finds it working on himself, even now.) “You spend the fight picking up the ghosts of the men who die. You carry them with you until you can let them go.”</p><p>Joseph says nothing.</p><p>Sergeant Schofield pulls the arm off his eyes and stares at the ceiling.  “You hear them cry,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You hear them argue, you hear them scream.  They do not want to be dead. In this war, most of them don’t believe they are dead -- not at first.”</p><p>“Will,” Joseph says, and stops.  He is so tired. He just wants Schofield to stop pretending and go back to being the way he was before Joseph chanced on him at the line in Passchendaele.</p><p>“I’m going to the graveyard at midnight tonight,” Schofield says simply.  “You can come, if you want. You’ll see your brother again. But this is what it will be like, for the rest of your life.”</p><p>It is the stark way that he says it that makes Joseph stop.  For Schofield, this is reality. For Schofield, this -- delusion -- is life.  And Joseph wants so badly to understand how someone so dear to him can be so utterly mad.</p><p>“Fine,” he says, fed up with it all.  “Fine. What do I have to do?”</p><p>~ * ~</p><p>Tom knows this is hard on Will because he has never seen Will so drunk in his life.  Will never partook of the rum ration the men got, not really; if he couldn’t discreetly foist it off on someone else, he took his as watered as he could manage, always.  Usually, he poured it into his canteen with the rest of his water. The drinks with Hepburn were over his limit.</p><p>And Tom didn’t mean for Will to <em> drink with </em> Joe when he suggested Will bring the brandy along -- he just knew it would remind Joe that Father liked Will.  Joe set much in store by Father’s advice, particularly in matters of leadership, and Tom knew it would soften him at least a little.  But then Joe invited Will to join him and, well.</p><p>At least Will is only slightly unsteady on his feet.  Tom sees how hard he is concentrating on maintaining a straight path as he walks, though, and really hopes they don’t run into any other officers taking the opportunity to sneak out of camp.  Joe hardly looks like he has been drinking at all, which is astonishing to Tom as his brother single-handedly accounted for most of the remainder of Will’s brandy. Tom supposes it is a natural result of all that drinking Joe does in the officers’ club when he goes there.  How would Mother take that? Tom thinks she must have been very disapproving if Joe partook to such excess at home.</p><p>But anyway.  They are heading to a graveyard, with Tom leading.  They are in a larger city for once -- nowhere near as large as Ypres -- but this part of France isn’t war-torn; it is far, far back from the line, or any fighting at all.  So, while the streets aren’t bustling at this time of night, they are not completely devoid of life the way most of the destroyed small towns have been: some windows still have the low orange glow of oil lamps in them, and shadows pass in front of curtains every once in a while.  </p><p>Tom has found a small churchyard that is relatively isolated, though, with a tall brick wall topped with those wrought-iron spikes that makes the whole look rather uninviting.  Somewhere, a bell tolls half-past the hour. This church is too small to have a belltower; it is a distant bell that echoes through the streets. The old stone church comes into view after another corner.</p><p>Joe is visibly apprehensive, but Will moves straight for the gate and lets them all in with the ease of long practice at keeping it quiet.  Joe follows him unhappily (he hides it well) as Will finds a spot to sit with his back to the brickwork (there are no trees in this cemetery).  It gives him a good view of the center of the graveyard.  </p><p>Joe stands awkwardly for a moment before asking, “We’re just . . . sitting?” </p><p>“I’m sitting down,” Will says dryly.  “You’re still standing.” He gestures to the ground next to him.  “We need to wait until midnight. We’ll get up when the Grim appears.”</p><p>Joe eyes him skeptically but sits next to Will after only another moment’s hesitation anyway.  Will rummages in one of the pockets of his tunic and pulls out something small - Tom doesn’t quite manage to see what it is.  He holds it out to Joe.  </p><p>“Keep this in your hand,” Will advises him.  “It’ll keep you from falling asleep.”</p><p>Joe takes it and studies it.  It is a nail. “Why would I fall asleep?” he asks politely, as though he is humoring Will.</p><p>“The Grim makes you fall asleep if you stay in the churchyard and you aren’t helping it.  I don’t know why. I had a penknife the first time I went to see it; but Henry didn’t have anything and he fell asleep.”  Will makes a grumbling noise. “He was the one who was dared in the first place. Left me on my own trying to convince the other boys we’d won the dare.”</p><p>Joe nods as though this slightly-slurred explanation makes perfect sense to him.  “I did not realise the Grim was a fairie,” he says.</p><p>Will shrugs.  “It’s not,” he answers.</p><p>Even Joe’s sense of manners withers under the situation, Tom sees.  He falls silent, unable to come up with any more small talk. Tom can’t find anything to say, either; he has too many emotions all welling up inside.  </p><p>They sit there for a while, without saying anything.  It is very cold. Tom sees Will’s and Joe’s breath in the air, wisping like smoke from their noses.  Joe tugs the collar of his uniform up higher; Will buries his chin and mouth beneath the small home-made scarf that normally lies hidden under his tunic and kit.  The minutes drag on slowly, horribly slowly. Tom wavers between feverish excitement and terrible dread: he will be able to talk to his brother again! But what if his brother regrets it?  But they can talk! But at what cost . . . </p><p>“Maybe he shouldn’t do it,” Tom says suddenly, doubting himself.  Maybe Will was right -- some of the ghosts are in an awful state. Tom is, too.  He presses a hand to his side, pushing against the memory of dying in a dirty farmyard.</p><p>“Too late for that,” Will replies, his voice muffled by his scarf.  “He’s here.”</p><p>“What?” Joe asks, startled.</p><p>“Tom’s second-guessing the wisdom of having you go through with this,” Will tells Joe, keeping his eyes on the center of the graveyard.</p><p>Joe nods.  Tom sees how his brother swallows heavily and the flash of anger that Joe suppresses, and realises: it is not that simple, anymore.  Joe is here because he wants confirmation Will is truly mad; he is not daring to hope that Will is not lying. Joe is here because he is trying to be supportive of someone he considers a friend, but he doesn’t actually believe Will can see the spirits of the dead.</p><p>Tom follows this thought to its logical conclusion.  If Joe leaves now, he will never know Will is not lying to him.  Even if Major Hepburn talks to him about it, both Will and Joe will be stuck living with the knowledge that neither trusted the other as they should.  They would never be able to repair what Tom has wrecked. Tom is almost swamped with the guilt he feels at this thought, but he shoves it aside; he must keep on.</p><p>“Maybe don’t mention I’m here,” Tom murmurs close to Will’s ear.  Then, because it sounds too grim, he makes an effort to lighten his tone.  “Let me give him the surprise of his life when he sees the Grim -- I can pop out behind him!”</p><p>Will snorts quietly in amusement.  Tom watches nervously, but Joe does not react in the slightest.  Probably he didn’t hear it.</p><p>Five minutes before midnight, Joe starts to drift under.  His eyes are fluttering shut as he starts to doze.</p><p>“Will, he’s falling asleep,” Tom says once he notices.    </p><p>Will elbows Joe.  It makes him jerk and start back awake.  “Keep your hands on that nail,” Will reminds him quietly, and checks his watch.  They have four more minutes. Joe fumbles for the nail, dropped in a fold of his trousers, and finds it: his hands steady.</p><p>“Do you know what you are going to say to him?” Will asks suddenly.</p><p>“What?” Joe is blearily studying the nail, blinking hard to clear the sleep from his eyes.  He scratches at some rust with his thumbnail and some alertness returns to him, stiffening his posture.  </p><p>“Tom,” Will says.  “Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”</p><p>Joe gives him an oblique look that, to Tom, clearly shows how unwelcome Joe finds this avenue of conversation.  “You are very drunk right now,” he informs Will, sidestepping the question in true Mother fashion.</p><p>“It’s the only reason I’m not as cold as I should be, yes,” Will agrees.  He squints at the church. “Think about it,” he says after a moment. Joe says nothing.  </p><p>Tom bounces a little where he stands.  He wishes for the millionth time that he died with a flask of something to help calm the nerves.</p><p>A minute ‘til, and Will gets up.  “It’s easier on your feet,” he tells Joe, and offers him a hand up.  Joe does his best not to look at Will as though he’s mad. Truthfully, Tom doubts Will would notice; Will is jittery too, openly worried in a way Tom has never seen from him when they habitually visit the Grim.  But, then, Will is usually not drunk. Maybe that’s it? Tom hopes that’s it. </p><p>Tom can’t help it, himself: he’s so nervous that in the last few moments, he caves, and reaches out for Will.  Something to hold on to, if he can. His hands pass through his friend -- he sees Will shiver a little -- as the bell begins to toll.  Joe starts visibly at the sound, and Tom can’t help the frantic noise that escapes from his throat. This always, <em> always </em> unnerves him.  </p><p>This time, the Grim arrives like a squall.  It blasts in all at once, winds whirling through the empty churchyard, creating invisible eddies and flows around the headstones that Tom senses only he can feel so intimately.  Will stands straight and tall and unswayed. Joe staggers dramatically to the side, disoriented.</p><p>The Grim is there.  It is bigger than ever.</p><p>The first thing it does is stand stock still and watch -- all of them, Tom thinks; he can feel it looking at him, but he notices how Will, too, stiffens.  Joe shouts with sudden alarm and Tom has the sinking feeling that he’s become far too accustomed to in recent weeks: the feeling that it has gone too far.</p><p>Then the Grim <em> moves. </em>  </p><p>If Tom weren’t a good younger brother -- a kind one, even -- he would hold the noise Joe makes against him for the <em> rest of his life. </em>   The look of sheer incredulity <em> alone </em> is hysterical, and Tom bursts out laughing as the Grim bounds over, leaps on top of his brother, knocks him to the ground, and commences greeting him with an enthusiastic and sloppy face wash.  It throws Tom back into memories of when they were both much younger and were permitted for the first time to come help their father train the new litters.</p><p>After a while, the Grim leaves off, tail wagging -- it is infinitely pleased.  Tom notices, too, that Will is much more relaxed. This is a good thing, as he is the next one the Grim turns its attention to.</p><p>Will also gets an enthusiastic welcome.  Instead of knocking him over, though, the Grim manages a more sedate greeting: it stands on its hind legs with its front paws on Will’s shoulders and proceeds to lick him silly.  Will -- heaven forbid, he must be <em> really </em> relieved -- Will <em> giggles. </em>  </p><p>“Hello,” he says to the dog.  “Yes, hello to you, too.” Will rubs its belly and scratches under its chin until the Grim’s tail swings so wildly the storm starts up again.  As Tom braces himself anew, he sees movement just past Will -- Joe.  </p><p>Joe is still on the ground.  As he starts to sit up, he sees Tom and he freezes, leaning up on his elbows.  Tom sees the new shock play over his brother’s face; there are tears in his brother’s eyes.</p><p>“Joe!” Tom shouts, delighted.  How could he have forgotten? Tom crosses the ground between them and kneels down so he can properly talk to his older brother.  </p><p>Joe’s mouth opens, closes, opens, and stays open as he tries to find words to speak.  “You’ll catch flies like that,” Tom rebukes him, echoing their mother’s advice. He grins as he says it, though; he can’t remember when he and Joe last spoke face-to-face like this.  A year ago, it must be. </p><p>“Tom,” Joe says.  There is wonder in it, and horror.  And grief and joy as well.  </p><p>“What, did you think Will was lying to you?” Tom teases him.  “Not hardly. He can’t even <em> joke </em> to save his life!”</p><p>Joe sits all the way up, still staring.  “Tom,” he says again, breath catching; he reaches out.  His hands pass through Tom.</p><p>Tom feels the disruption as a thrum through his belly.  “Erf,” he says, going cross-eyed at the unexpected sensation.  “Don’t do that. It’s all tingly.”</p><p>“You can see him and hear him,” Will says from behind them.  Tom turns to look at him. As Will continues to speak, the Grim backs up, landing down on its four paws.  It pants happily. “You can't touch him. And don’t think I haven’t tried,” Will adds. It is only a little bitter -- the sound of a lesson learnt long ago.</p><p>The Grim moves around until it stands next to Will, big enough that when it noses under Will’s arm, it looks like Will is leaning against the big black head.  The white eyes are as piercing as ever, when Tom looks.</p><p>And Tom feels the pull.</p><p>He’s never felt it so strongly.  He is suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that now?  Now, Will isn’t alone. Now, Will has Joe. And now that Joe sees that Will isn’t lying to him, that Will was indeed opening up and extending his trust, Joe will never doubt Will again -- and Tom knows that when it comes to loyalty, he and Joe are two of a pair.  Joe won’t ever give up Will’s friendship.  </p><p>And Joe can keep Will safe in this war; Joe can ensure that Will is properly taken care of, and in a way that Tom could never do at this point.  Tom has fulfilled his promise to Will because he has ensured that Will is not alone anymore.</p><p>Tom takes a stumbling step towards the Grim.</p><p>“Tom?”</p><p>It’s Joe.  Joe is reaching out for him again.  His fingers pass through Tom and Tom barely feels it as he again steps forward to the Grim.  </p><p>Taking his third step now, Tom tears his gaze away and spots Will.  Will looks a little surprised, but even as Tom watches, he sees the flare of realisation in his friend’s face.  There’s a brief moment of wild grief that crosses his face before he schools it into acceptance and resignation.</p><p>And something about that doesn’t sit right with Tom, not in the slightest.  He stops in his tracks and looks at the Grim.</p><p>The Grim shares with him the certainty and peace of knowing that Tom does not have to stay.  Tom has done what he needed to do. Tom can move on now; Tom’s obligations to the world are over.  </p><p>Tom sways forward.  The compulsion to take another step is overwhelming.</p><p>But . . . </p><p>“No,” Tom says weakly.  And then resolution fills him and he repeats it.  “No,” he says, stronger this time. “Will’s still in this war.  I promised I’d stay with him to see it through.”</p><p>The Grim stares at him a moment longer.  Tom knows this is Death, and understands, now, that Death cannot be denied -- though Tom is doing precisely that.  </p><p>Tom does not know what will happen, but just as he was suddenly and unshakably sure that his purpose here was ended, moments ago, he is now dead certain that he is not finished with the world yet.  Will is still here -- that means he can still die. Tom refuses to let that happen. He feels his resistance to the Grim strengthen with this renewed resolve.</p><p>The moment passes.  The Grim looks away.  Tom sags now that he’s no longer held by that fey gaze and stumbles backwards until he crowds right through Joe.  He drops to the ground and sits huddled behind his brother, shaken.</p><p>Will’s face, when Tom looks, has a sort of delirious relief that is difficult to describe properly.  Tom sees him scrub his tunic sleeve over his face and then turn to offer the Grim his hand.</p><p>“What is happening?” Joe asks quietly as the Grim takes up a more formal pose, facing Will.  Tom just shakes his head; he cannot answer now -- both because he cannot find the words and because he cannot find the breath.  He manages to indicate that Joe should keep watching because, well, it will be important for him to know.</p><p>The Grim licks Will’s palm.  Tom always wondered why it had to be the palm and not the knuckles, but perhaps it is something symbolic about Will letting the ghosts go.  Anyway.</p><p>Will has been carrying these ghosts for many weeks, now; they materialise, one after another.  All of the men from Will and Joe’s platoon are here -- Privates Martin, Evans, Fitzwilliam, Darby, and Coombs, along with Lance Corporal Linden.  Men from other platoons appear, too, and not just B Company’s -- there had been a machine gun placement that ripped through A Company that dreadful last week of November: Tom recognises several of Hallewell’s prized football team, shot full of holes.  There is Lieutenant Graham, chest shattered and belly torn open. Some German ghosts, looking bewildered. One or two Frenchmen. Civilians.  </p><p>The Grim steps back and back and back, until the queue of dead stretches out the gate.  When the last one passes through the open door, the world chills perceptibly. Like a thin veneer of ice, reality re-establishes itself in the churchyard.  The gate is now closed.</p><p>Will puts his hands in his pockets and comes over to them.</p><p>“Apparently it’s an actual job,” he says to Joe, drooping from exhaustion now that the dramatic parts are over.  Tom can empathise. “I didn’t know until earlier today, but it’s why Mackenzie had me transferred to the 2nd.”</p><p>Joe stares at him.  “Mackenzie knew?” he asks, baffled.  </p><p>“And Hepburn,” Will answers quietly.  “Hepburn’s been doing this for his whole career, apparently.  Neither of them bothered to let me know that I was supposed to do it; they just assumed I already knew.”</p><p>“You were too good at it,” Tom manages to say.  “They’d have pulled you in before now if you weren’t so bloody competent.”</p><p>Will turns his attention to Tom.  “Are you alright, Tom?” he asks, crouching next to him.  Will pulls his hand out of his pocket and reaches out; he stops just shy of going through Tom, hand hovering cupped just over Tom’s shoulder, miming the action he would take if Tom were physically present.  </p><p>“I’m alright,” Tom tells Will, following the implied directive.  He turns both ways so Will can look him over. Tom thinks of the Grim’s persuasion, and feels a bit ill -- he hopes he isn’t actually turning green.  “Don’t want to do that again in a hurry, though.”</p><p>Will huffs fondly through his giant nose.  “Right,” he says. “Well, can you get back as is, or would you like a ride?”</p><p>Tom bats him off.  “I can make it,” he says.  “Besides, it’s the first time I’ve seen Joe properly in <em> ages! </em>  I’m not going to hide away now that he can hear me.”</p><p>Both Will and Joe laugh at that; Joe’s is markedly more hysterical.  He’s crying again, Tom sees.</p><p>“No, no, none of that,” he says hastily.  “Come on now, Joe, this is a happy time! We can finally talk about all the girls Mum wants you to marry!”</p><p>Joe chokes on the next laugh and hides his face in his hands.  After only a bit of hesitation, Will eases himself to sitting next to Tom’s brother and carefully wraps both his arms around him.  Joe lets out an audible sob and buries his face in Will’s shoulder while Will makes soothing noises. Tom sighs; he supposes Joe is in one of his emotional moods and there’s not much to be done about it until it passes.</p><p>Joe’s crying jag lightens up after only a few minutes, at least.  He pulls away and runs both his hands through his hair, which is now standing wildly on end in exactly the disarray Mother loathes to see it.  Tom is amused to see that the ink splotches on his face have been all smeared around with the advent of tears. “Sorry,” Joe apologises to Will, gulping in air and doing his best to steady himself.  “Sorry about that. Made a bit of a mess.”</p><p>Will shrugs.  “I’ve two little ones at home,” he says offhandedly.  “You’ve not made more of a mess than they normally do.”</p><p>Joe nods emphatically, though Tom doubts he quite heard what Will said.  He wipes his eyes and swallows hard, regaining his composure with each action.  At last he breathes in deeply and pushes himself to his feet.  </p><p>“We’ve got things to do tomorrow, no doubt,” he says, putting himself back together.  He holds out a hand for Will to take to pull himself up. “We can’t stay here all night.  And it’s bloody freezing.”</p><p>“Yes, Sir,” Will says, clasping it.  </p><p>Joe helps Will to his feet, but he doesn’t let go; he reaches out and grasps Will’s shoulder with his other hand.  Will looks surprised.</p><p>“I owe you the biggest apology of my life,” Joe tells Will, absolutely serious.  </p><p>Will stiffens a little and tries to brush it off.  “I understand,” he says, “I know it’s unbelievable --”</p><p>“That doesn’t excuse the fact that I should have trusted you,” Joe interrupts.  He gentles his tone some with his next words when Will shies back a little, face closing off.  “Will. I am so sorry for how I have behaved. You have never given me cause to doubt you before, and the way I reacted is inexcusable.”</p><p>Will looks at the ground.  Tom sees him swallow hard from where Tom is still sitting.  “Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse. And maybe under other circumstances, there would have been more -- but now, even as drunk as they are, both Joe and Will are embarrassed.  With a last manly squeeze, Joe lets go and they both take a step back.</p><p>Will looks at Tom.  “Ready?”</p><p>Tom gets up as well to join them; once he reaches level with Will, Joe briskly wraps an arm around Will’s shoulders (or he tries, at any rate) and turns all of them towards the gate. As they move towards the fence line, Tom cannot help but be struck with the knowledge that despite everything that has changed within this graveyard, the world outside these gates remains the same.  It is still lethal, treacherous and dangerous, and no matter how intense the joy and relief flooding through him are now, the three of them will have to work hard to make it through the rest of the war -- and Tom will have to work especially hard to make sure neither Will nor Joe wind up like him. </p><p>But at least Will isn’t quite so alone, Tom thinks.  He looks at Joe, who is still sneaking glances at Tom filled with mingled wonder and shock, and thinks that, yes; there is still work to do in this war to end all wars. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N -- (:  Fin!</p><p>Pavuvu and I would like to thank all you lovely readers!  Without you, this story isn’t worth writing.  In particular, a HUGE THANK YOU to Yes and Laila McManus for commenting on every single chapter -- we adore you!  InconsistentlyPassionate, Luckylily, doasdie, Ifis, writeyourownstory, :), bexinthesky, Fluffyhoundoom, liliandoh, and RisingShadows -- we have loved reading each and every one of the reviews you took the time to leave us!  @constantbellpepper, your company and commentary on tumblr has been immensely helpful!  Pavuvu and I hope all of you find this last chapter of this work satisfyingly conclusive.</p><p>Tremendous thanks also to: my lovely fandom spouse Pavuvu -- darling, this is all for you! &lt;3  Longfic Lads, your support and encouragement is the FUEL for my EXISTENCE!  And to my dear irl husband -- thank you for putting up with my strange writing habits!</p><p>There will be a sequel.  Ifis is correct: we still have a lot of story to tell!  But we do not have a title QUITE YET.  Help us out, please?  We're stuck between three possibilities: "the guns below," "us who die," or "now we lie."  Vote for whatever title you think would be best for the third (and final) major work in this series in the comments below.  (Also, let us know what sorts of shenanigans you guys would like to see!)  </p><p>For any other questions or comments -- you can get in touch with us either here on tumblr!  As always, I’m @lizofalltrades and Pavuvu is @marbat!</p><p>(Also HAPPY HOMESTUCK!!!)</p><p>Historical Notes:</p><p>1.  I thought people got telegrams about their loved ones being killed.  Why is Lieutenant Blake writing letters?<br/>The War Department did send telegrams to the families of the dead as an official notice.  This was usually a one or two sentence message simply stating that the soldier was killed in action.  However, the commanding officers of a soldier killed were also expected to write letters about the particular circumstances to the families.  If the commanding officer didn’t want to do it, friends of the soldier or the chaplain of the battalion would write such letters.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>